









Class _ 

Book , 


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THE FURTHEST FURY 


CAROLYN WELLS’ 

Baffling detective stories, in which Fleming Stone, 
the great American Detective, displays his re¬ 
markable ingenuity for unravelling mysteries 


SPOOKY HOLLOW 
FEATHERS LEFT AROUND 
THE MYSTERY GIRL 
THE MYSTERY OF THE 
SYCAMORE 
RASPBERRY JAM .] 

THE DIAMOND PIN 
VICKY VAN 
THE MARK OF CAIN 
THE CURVED BLADES 
THE WHITE ALLEY 
ANYBODY BUT ANNE 
THE MAXWELL MYSTERY 
A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE 
THE CLUE 
THE GOLD BAG 
PTOMAINE^ STREET 

A Rollicking Parody on a Famous Book 




THE 

FURTHEST FURY 

A FLEMING STONE STORY 


BY 

CAROLYN WELLS 

Author of “ Vicky Van” “ Spooky Hollow” etc. 



PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON 
T. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
1924 
















COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY STREET AND SMITH CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


' p/uviV 



* » 0 


§ 


PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS 
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. 


MAR 20 ’24 

©CU777602 

»i r • ^ , V 


TO MY DEAR FRIEND 

SOPHIE MACKAY 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Stanhope Starts . 9 

II. The Tragedy . 26 

III. The Tangara. 44 

IV. Father and Son . 62 

V. Busybody’s Story . 79 

VI. Barker Hazelton . 97 

VII. The White-faced Man . 114 

VIII. Rubber Heels. 131 

IX. Gladys Lee . 148 

X. Evidence . 166 

XI. Fleming Stone . 183 

XII. A Leap in the Dark. 200 

XIII. The Net.217 

XIV. In the Wedding Ring.234 

XV. Mementoes and Souvenirs .251 

XVI. The Pearl Pin .268 

XVII. Who Was Elaine? . 285 

XVIII. The Truth at Last . 301 




















THE FURTHEST FURY 

CHAPTER I 


STANHOPE STARTS 

When David Stanhope entered the Grand Central 
Station and walked down the broad and beautiful 
stone steps, he went slowly, and his observant eyes 
browsed happily over the vast concourse and its 
undulating pageant of humanity. Orderly but rest¬ 
less lines stretched away from each ticket window, 
more bustling groups surrounded the information 
pagoda in the centre, and recurrent tides ebbed and 
flowed through the wide doorways. 

He loved the scene and never tired of it, and 
as he reached the floor himself, and followed his 
own porter through the maelstrom, he noticed swiftly 
the faces and forms of those who passed him, and 
his retentive memory snapped and preserved many 
mental photographs. 

He was happy because he was started on a rest¬ 
ful and pleasant summer vacation which held all the 
elements of comfort and enjoyment that he liked best 
and none of the annoyance or boredom that he de¬ 
tested. 

Not for him the big summer hotels, or the small 
summer boarding houses; not for him a camp or 

9 





10 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


cabin wherein to “ rough it,” or a pretentious bunga¬ 
low with elaborate appointments for “ the sim¬ 
ple life.” 

His objective point was the home of an old friend, 
and his pursuits were to be entirely of his own 
election. 

But Dave Stanhope was of the temperament that 
enjoys little things and finds pleasure in physical 
comfort or even the mere absence of physical dis¬ 
comfort. 

So his pleasantly blue eyes beamed kindly on his 
fellow mortals as he strode through the gate and 
.boarded the train that would take him up into the 
green hill country of Connecticut. 

His striding through the gate was delayed, even 
impeded by a number of the more highly-favored 
sex, whom he allowed to precede him, at their own 
insistence, until his patience gave out and he stepped 
between two ladies, evidently cronies, who gave him 
scornful glances as he hurried ahead. 

But Stanhope liked to board the train in time to 
get his impedimenta all in place before they left 
the station, and he watched with interest while the 
porter stowed away his bags and coat and reading 
matter in such wise as he directed. 

Then, with a little grunt of satisfaction, he 
settled himself into the hollow of rather prickery 
mohair plush assigned to him, and closed his eyes 
for a moment in sheer joy of inaction. 


STANHOPE STARTS 


11 


He quickly opened them again, for though a 
tired business man off on a holiday, David Stanhope 
was always alert unless really asleep. 

In the absence of anything else of interest, he 
noted his fellow passengers. There seemed to be 
mostly women at his end of the car, and two of 
them, he saw, were the two he had inadvertently 
separated as he came through the gate. 

They were not sisters, he concluded, after a 
brief survey, but friends, perhaps office workers off 
for their own holiday. Next them sat an older 
woman, with a large, rather handsome face, and 
next her, a pretty young girl, not quite of the flapper 
type, but a modified version of it. 

Not strangely, perhaps, Stanhope bent his atten¬ 
tion on this girl, and concluded she was a college 
girl or very recent graduate, perhaps of the class 
of that very year. It was mid July now, and the 
girl, in smart togs, was evidently on pleas¬ 
ure bent. 

She glanced round the car, favored Stanhope 
with a fleeting, impersonal inspection and after a 
few more wide-eyed contemplations of the women 
near her, she immersed herself in a book. 

Now David Stanhope had one pet hallucination. 
He firmly believed that he was a bom detective. 
Never had he had a chance to try himself out, but he 
was none the less sure of his ability. 


12 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Of course a perspicacious reader will see at once 
that this was a hallucination, for no real detective 
could have had an hallucination about anything. Mis¬ 
takes they may make, wrong opinions they may hold, 
even mistaken theories they may put forth, but 
hallucinations cannot be theirs. For real, true, 
heaven-bom detectives are logical, rational and math¬ 
ematically accurate, and they realize their limitations. 

Yet it was Stanhope’s optimism and self-con¬ 
fidence that gave him his belief in his own powers, 
and optimism and self-confidence are good things 
for a detective, or anyone else, to possess. 

So he looked happily about him, through the 
car, out of the windows, at the other passengers, but 
always his eyes came back to rest on the girl in the 
sport clothes. 

Not bizarre or conspicuous clothes. Her frock 
was of tailored lines, with a cape of knitted wool and 
a saucy hat of some embroidered fabric, all of a soft 
shade of tan brown. The girl’s hair and eyes were 
brown, too, which Stanhope concluded was the rea¬ 
son she had selected those clothes. 

But his interest in the girl was purely artistic, 
for Stanhope was a confirmed widower of many years 
standing, and present-day young people appealed to 
him as little as he did to them. 

Yet he was far from old. About forty-five or 
six, he looked younger, and, when interested, he had 
all the vivacity and enthusiasm of real youth. 


STANHOPE STARTS 


13 


Yet to the girl, in her earliest twenties, he ap¬ 
peared a man of her father’s generation and so of 
no claim whatsoever to her attention. 

Stanhope had a new detective novel with him, 
as well as a magazine of that same stimulating type 
of fiction, and he looked forward to a long, delight¬ 
ful train ride, reading them. 

Yet first, he mused, he would give his detective 
instinct a bit of salutary exercise by trying to deduce 
from the appearance of those nearest him some facts 
about themselves which chance might enable him 
to verify. 

He began with the girl. 

“ Rich and indulgent parents,” he said to him¬ 
self, noting her correct costume, worn with the air 
of one accustomed to fine raiment, and her plain 
yet expensive bag, vanity case and handkerchief. 

“ Not used to travelling alone,” he added, as the 
conductor coming along just then, the girl grew quite 
flustered and flurried over the simple matter of her 
train ticket and Pullman ticket. 

But that was as far as he could get. His deduc¬ 
tive processes could not tell him whether she was 
going some place or coming home from it; whether 
she was happy or secretly miserable; whether she 
was earnest-souled or butterfly-minded. 

He turned his attention to the older women 
nearby. 


o 


14 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


The good-looking matron had removed her hat, 
showing well dressed and tidy gray hair, that waved 
back from a high, rather intellectual looking brow. 

She wore a gown of black taffeta, made without 
style or charm, but which seemed to suit her some¬ 
what severe effect of dignity and reserve. 

She met Stanhope’s regard with an indifferent 
stare and dropped her eyes again to the large-sized 
magazine she held. 

The other two women—and these four were all 
who came within his range of easy vision—were 
talking rapidly. So deep in conversation they were 
that both seemed to talk at once and their accom¬ 
panying gestures were vivacious and continuous. 

Without a qualm of conscience, Stanhope listened, 
but the incoherent babble gave him no clear idea of 
their subject. 

He heard such scraps as “ And so then I 
decided-— ” or “Yes, she always was like that— ” 
but they gave him no information. 

These women were intensely alive and alert, 
wrapped up in themselves and their own interests, 
and they vouchsafed no glance to the man opposite 
or the other women beside them. 

He glanced at their faces. Intelligent, quick¬ 
witted they were, yet commonplace, he decided, as he 
noticed their unespecial black leather handbags and 
the newspapers they had chosen from the trainboy. 


STANHOPE STARTS 


15 


But, he confided to himself, after his inspection, 
detectives don’t care much about the traits of every¬ 
day women or pretty young girls. It’s criminal ten¬ 
dencies we ought to look for, and who could expect 
to find any in a bunch of women? 

So he made for the smokingcar, found a satis¬ 
factory seat, and after a half hour’s discreet search¬ 
ing of physiognomies had discovered, at least, to 
his own conviction, two pickpockets, a potential mur¬ 
derer and a man whose chief diversion, he felt sure, 
was arson. 

So you see how far David Stanhope was carried 
by his optimism and self-assurance. 

He returned to his Pullman in time to assist the 
deft porter in his arduous labors of getting him ready 
to detrain. 

In the gathering up of his bits of hand luggage, 
his reading matter and his golf bag, Stanhope found 
time to note his opposite neighbors, and was duly 
regretful, though not disconsolate, when he found 
that the pretty girl staid on the train, while the three 
older women got off at his own station stop. 

He fell back, giving the ladies full use of the 
aisle, and his eyes fell on a magazine that had been 
left behind. Not forgotten, for it was thrown care¬ 
lessly on the floor. But as it chanced, it was a num¬ 
ber that Stanhope wanted, and uncertain as to getting 


16 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


another, he hesitated only an instant and then picked 
it up and tucked it under his arm. 

The girl, noticing, smiled a little at what she 
thought was culpable theft, but Stanhope didn’t see 
the smile and wouldn’t have cared a straw if he had. 

New Midian was the name on the signboard of 
the little railway station, and in another moment 
Stanhope’s hand was grasped by his host and a 
chauffeur was taking his bags and things. 

“ Hello, hello, old chap,” came the hearty voice 
of Amos Hazelton. “ You’re looking fit, I’ll vow! ” 
Hop in the car—one or two errands in the village 
and then for Hazel Hill. Glad to see you—mighty 
glad! ” 

The few small errands attended to, Hazelton said 
to his chauffeur, “ Drive along toward the Golf 
Club, and pick up Mr. Bark, when you see him.” 

Stanhope sensed a note of annoyance in the other’s 
voice, and said at once, “ what’s the boy up to now ? ” 

“ Oh, another girl! ” said the father, impatiently. 
“ And serious this time. Barker’s a born gallant, but 
he never picks the right kind of a sweetheart—” 

“ From your point of view! ” laughed Stanhope. 

“ Don’t be too hard on him, Amos, he’s too young to 
settle down to one, yet.” 

“ That’s just what I tell him—but headstrong 
cuss that he is—here he comes now, girl and all! ” 

Stanhope saw young Hazelton, tall, strong, hand- 


STANHOPE STARTS 


17 


some, and a sweet, pretty little scrap of femininity 
of the rosebud type, who looked scared to death at 
the appearance of the Hazelton car. 

“ Get in, Barker,” ordered his father. 

“ And we’ll set Gladys down as we pass,” said 
the young man, handing the lovely maiden 
into the car. 

The two sat in the chairs in front of the older 
men, and Stanhope looked admiringly at the little 
blonde, bobbed head, that seemed to gravitate natu¬ 
rally toward the stalwart form beside her. 

Amos Hazelton frowned, he looked toward Stan¬ 
hope and scowled, but he said no word. 

“ Your Sweet Auburn of a village is as lovely as 
ever,” Stanhope said, admiringly, as they swept past 
the beautiful elm-shaded green that was the long 
centre of the town. 

“ Yes,” Hazelton always warmed to this subject; 
“ yes, several improvements this year. You haven’t 
been here for three years, you old scoundrel! you’ll 
see several changes.” 

“ More people, too,” and Stanhope glanced at the 
frequent groups strolling along the village sidewalks, 
that ran either side of the green. 

“ Yes, more’s the pity. But we’ve some new¬ 
comers who are real acquisitions. Martin, turn, 
and go past the Lawrence cottage.” 

“ That,” he said, as his chauffeur obeyed and 

2 


18 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


turned into a side road that was really little more than 
a flowery lane, “ that’s where Nevin Lawrence lives, 
with his sister. He’s the author, you know. We 
never had a celebrity here before.” 

“ Not so very celebrated,” laughed Stanhope, “ I 
never heard of him.” 

“ Oh, you must have. He writes for the Carni¬ 
val, that big story paper.” 

“ I read that occasionally, I have one here with 
me—but I don’t remember his name.” 

“ He’s in it once in a while—good yarns, too. 
Next to the Gray place, you see—” 

“ But the Gray place is all built over! Quite 
pretentious—” 

“ Oh, yes. Used to be the Gray Bungalow, you 
remember—now, its Gray Porches, if you please!” 

“ Good name, too,” and Stanhope looked admir¬ 
ingly at the big, rambling house with many porches 
on all sides, and all painted a fresh, smart gray. 

“ Fine boarding house—the best people come up 
here to it. Ben Gray always knew how to run a 
boarding house, and his ideas and plans have grown 
with experience until now his is the show place of 
the county among the Inns.” 

Passing these houses they came to a pretty white 
cottage, where the car stopped and young Hazelton 
sprang down to assist the little blonde beauty out. 

A few whispered words of farewell passed be- 


STANHOPE STARTS 


19 


tween the two young people, the girl went through 
the gate that Barker Hazelton held open for her, 
and then the youth returned to the car and sat in 
moody silence. 

“ Chirk up, son, and chatter to Dave Stanhope/’ 
said Hazelton, with an air of would-be gayety. 

“ You might at least have said good evening to 
Gladys,” the boy blurted out, sullenly, and ignoring 
his father’s speech. 

“ Didn’t want to,” the older man returned. “ I 
don’t approve of her, Bark, and you know it.” 

“ You don’t approve of anything or anybody that 
I like!” and Barker looked around belligerently. 

“ There, there,” said Stanhope, “ don’t quarrel 
before me! What’s this place, the new Club house ? ” 

“ Yes, isn’t it a dandy! ” and father and son were 
at one again as they extolled the merits of the new 
and beautiful building. 

“ Can’t stop now,” Hazelton said, “ too near 
dinner time, but to-morrow you shall have a sight of 
the place, inside and out. It’s just about all right.” 

Amos Hazelton’s household consisted further of 
a wife and daughter who were just now up in the 
White Mountains. This was part of the summer 
routine, and Stanhope oftener than not, timed his 
visits to take advantage of the absence of the ladies. 

Delightful people both, he thought them, but he 
and Amos were old friends, and Amos’s wife was a 


20 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


bit exacting, and so, it seemed best all round to visit 
Hazel Hill when its mistress was elsewhere. 

So well established had this habit become that it 
caused no comment, and though the previous two 
years Stanhope’s visit had been omitted because the 
Hazeltons had gone abroad, this summer the old 
conditions prevailed and so the habit was resumed. 

“ Everything is better and finer and handsomer,” 
said the guest appreciatively, as they drove in at the 
gateway of Hazel Hill. 

“ Two or three years make a difference in any 
country place,” returned Amos, and then they went 
into the house. 

The great comfortable home, and the easy infor¬ 
mality, owing to the absence of the ladies, went to 
make up an atmosphere after Stanhope’s own heart, 
and after a leisurely toilet he went down to find 
his host awaiting him in the living room. 

A sociable cocktail was served, and Stanhope 
noticed that while the father sipped one, apparently 
as a matter of convention, the son indulged in two 
with every appearance of avid enjoyment. 

Dinner was a pleasant and affable affair, and 
afterward, Barker excused himself and went down 
to the village for the evening, leaving the two old 
chums tete-a-tete on the veranda. 

“ What about the boy?” said Stanhope, almost 
before his footsteps had passed beyond heai mg. 


STANHOPE STARTS 


21 


“ Lots of things,” and Amos Hazelton turned 
to his friend with a sober face. 

“ First, the girl! ” 

“ Oh, first, last and all the time, the girl—that 
one, or another, Bark always has a girl. But usually 
they’re all-right girls—daughters of our friends or 
acquaintances.” 

“ And this one? ” prompted Stanhope, helpfully. 
“ This one—her name is Gladys Lee—is a daugh¬ 
ter of the village dressmaker—” 

“ Respectable? ” 

“ Oh, yes—that. But this time Barker’s got mar¬ 
riage in his head and she’s not the one for that.” 

“ Pretty little thing—” 

“ In a cheap way—” 

“ Oh, come now, Amos, not a cheap way. Friv¬ 
olous-looking, maybe, lightweight brain—but cheap 
isn’t the word.” 

“ I don’t care what the word is, I don’t propose 

my son shall marry the daughter of the village sew- 

. v 

mg woman. 

“ Don’t be snobbish—” 

“ It isn’t snobbery, but Barker is my only boy. 
He’ll carry on my business, inherit my estate, and he 
must have a wife that can do him credit.” 

“ How does Mrs. Hazelton feel about it? ” 

“ Just as I do.” 

“ Oh, well, it may blow over.” 


22 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ That’s what we hope. Now, here’s another and 
a worse trouble. Barker is not too fond of wine, it 
isn’t that, but he has some obstinate notions—” 

“ I saw him lap up two cocktails—” 

“No, it isn’t that, I tell you. He never takes a 
drop too much. But—the new clubhouse manage¬ 
ment has never allowed drinking—” 

“ How could it with prohibition? ” 

“ I mean, it hasn’t allowed the members to bring 
their own—not even a flask, or anything. And we 
older members want to keep it so. Well, there’s an 
election impending—president, you see—and it all 
depends on who’s elected whether we can keep the 
old laws or not.” 

“ I see. And Barker wants the wet president.” 

“ Yes, and I’m for the dry one. Now, the dry 
one is Nevin Lawrence, the writer chap, you know. 
He’s a fine man, he’d make the best possible president, 
but he wants the club absolutely dry. Barker adores 
Lawrence, but he can’t stand for the dry plank, 
so he—” 

“ Who’s the other candidate—the wet one ? ” 
Hazelton gave a queer little wry smile. " Barker 
himself,” he said. 

“That kid!” 

“ Well, you see, Bark isn’t such an awful kid. 
He’s twenty-six. And they want young blood. But 
I don’t want him to run against Lawrence, and I 


STANHOPE STARTS 


23 


don’t want to see the club go to the dogs. I may be 
an old fogy, and all that—” 

“ No, Amos, you’re right. Tell me more about 
this Lawrence. You say Barker likes him? ” 

“ Everybody likes him. He came here two years 
ago, with his sister, one of the sweetest women in 
the world. She and Mrs. Hazelton are dear friends. 
She’s a widow—husband killed in the war. Lawrence 
is a widower and the brother and sister have a pretty 
cottage—you saw it—next door to Gray Porches.” 
“ Yes, I remember.” 

“ The Grays swear by Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. 
Sayre—that’s his sister. Why the whole village 
swears by them. They’re the best people we have 
here by all odds. And, of course, Lawrence is the 
very man for president of the club. Wise, just, 
capable, and a celebrated author beside. Barker 
would be a silly president! He’s my own son and I 
love him, but he hasn’t any one single requisite that 
a president ought to have. Aside from all question 
of wet or dry, Barker is too immature, too inex¬ 
perienced for a club president. Twenty-six isn’t so 
young, but Barker is a headstrong, inconsequent sort, 
and he’d raise hob with that club! ” 

“ I believe you,” said Stanhope. “ What are you 
going to do about it? ” 

“ I don’t know. The election comes off next 


24 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


week, I haven’t a doubt but Lawrence will get it over 
Barker’s head, but I’m afraid he won’t.” 

“ Oh, of course he will, it’ll all be right. I should 
say the girl complication is really worse than the 
golf one.” 

“ Maybe. I don’t know. The boy is a care to 
me, I can’t deny that.” 

“ Is this Lawrence really much of a celebrity? ” 

“ Perhaps not that. But he’s a very popular 
writer. He has a story in the magazine every once 
in a while, and he’s beginning to be talked about.” 

“ A serial story? ” 

“ No, short stories. But mighty good ones.” 

“ Is he—er, cocky? ” 

“ Not a bit. Simple and pleasant—a fine, all 
round man. And his sister, Mrs. Sayre, is loved by 
every woman in the village.” 

“ And the men? ” 

“ They all admire and respect her. Oh, she isn’t 
the flirtatious sort. She’s a woman of thirty, I sup¬ 
pose, and she chums with the women mostly. She 
and her brother are devoted to each other, and they 
are both literary.” 

“ Does she write? ” 

/ “ No, some say she helps him, but I don’t know 
about that. She’s just a real lady, a fine, pleasant 
lady. Mrs. Hazelton and Millicent adore her.” 


STANHOPE STARTS 


25 


“ And the little blonde Gladys—does she 
like her? ” 

“ Why, I don’t know—I suppose so. But she’d 
like whoever or whatever Barker likes, and outside 
of this foolish club business, Bark likes Lawrence and 
his sister, both very much.” 

And then, somehow, the conversation drifted to 
more personal subjects, and the two men talked over 
old times and reminiscences of their college days 
together until, though it was not late, Stanhope 
declared he was ready for bed. 



CHAPTER II 


THE TRAGEDY 

Stanhope gave a sigh of content and satisfaction 
as he reached the pleasant rooms always allotted to 
him during his visits at Hazel Hill. 

Everything was in order for his comfort, and 
after a little further arranging of his personal be¬ 
longings, Stanhope sat down by his reading table 
for a solitary smoke. 

He picked up first the magazine he had acquired 
on the train. It was the Carnival, and he had taken 
it to himself because he knew it contained an article 
on Auction Bridge that he wanted to read; and he 
was now further interested, because he wanted to 
look over the story by Nevin Lawrence. 

He hardly expected to read the story through, but 
he found his attention caught after a paragraph or 
two, and read on absorbedly to the end. 

“ A good writer,” he said to himself. “ Clear 
headed and of an assured style. Must have travelled 
a bit—seems well informed on Antiquities, especially 
Grecian art. The way he handles Tanagra figurines 
proves first-hand acquaintance with them, not merely 
a study of the Boston Museum collection. I’ll be glad 
to meet that chap—and he certainly would seem a bet- 

26 


THE TRAGEDY 


27 


ter man for a club president than an addle-pated kid 
of twenty-six! ” 

Stanhope rose and went out on a little balcony 
that opened from his sitting room, to finish his 
smoke outside. 

He was in his element, for he had a touch of the 
Sybarite in his make-up, and the wicker lounging- 
chair, with a soft rug thrown over it, proved a com¬ 
fortable nest from which to gaze over the 
moonlighted landscape. 

It was about midnight, and the early August 
moon was at its full. Obscured now and then by a 
passing cloud, for the most part it shone with nearly 
daytime brightness, and Stanhope gazed his fill over 
the green scenery of the foreground and the black 
darkness of the distant hills. 

Hazel Hill, itself only a slight elevation, was 
nearly a mile from the village, where only a few 
lights twinkled at this hour. The villagers were of 
simple habits, *and most of the city people summering 
there also kept early hours. The white spires of 
three churches showed among the clustering trees, 
and the stone tower of the Public Library could be 
dimly seen. 

A long black oval was, Stanhope knew, the vil¬ 
lage green, but the houses on either side were hidden 
in the trees. 

His mind wandered back over the day. And from 


28 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


his subconsciousness emerged a mental picture of a 
man he had seen on the train. A man of no peculiar¬ 
ity of appearance except his white face. It seemed 
to Stanhope that he never had seen so white a face 
on a living being. 

Yet it was not from fear or any emotion that 
the man’s countenance was blanched. 

The whole incident now returned vividly to Stan¬ 
hope’s mind. He had just settled himself finally in 
his Pullman chair, when he chanced to lift his eyes 
and saw, just coming in the door, this man, a quiet, 
ordinary looking citizen, who stopped short as soon 
as he was fairly inside the car, gazed ahead of him 
for a moment, regarding Stanhope himself impas¬ 
sively and then, turning, left the car again. He 
showed no haste, no recognition of Stanhope or any¬ 
one else, he just came in and went out. Probably 
he discovered he was in the wrong car—or perhaps 
he was not entitled to a Pullman seat at all. But in 
any case, Stanhope had a distinct recollection of that 
intensely white face, and he pondered over it. 

“ Consumptive, I suppose,” he thought; “yet it 
wasn’t exactly the pallor of illness—more like a freak 
of nature in giving anyone such a curiously white 
skin. Good looking chap in his way—rather fine 
features, but a nervous, twitchy air—must have been 
an invalid—coming up this way for mountain air, 
likely as not.” 


THE TRAGEDY 


Then the thinker’s mind drifted to later memories 
—of the village as they passed through it in the 
motor, of the fine effect of the rebuilt Gray Porches 
—why did people choose such pretentious and ab¬ 
surd names! of the cottage where the author-man 
lived, of the cottage where little Gladys lived, and 
then paused for a time on the glimpse he had had of 
Love’s Young Dream. 

Barker Hazelton, twenty-six, and in love with the 
dressmaker’s daughter. He realized how it would 
chagrin Amos Hazelton and his wife, but personally 
Stanhope felt he wouldn’t care a rap if his son mar¬ 
ried a sewing woman’s child so long as she was as 
sweet and dear as that little girl. 

He had scarcely heard her speak a dozen words, 
but her pure, fine face was to him enough guaranty 
of her desirability. 

Well, he would look into all that in the morning; 
would also get more data as to the business of the 
golf club presidential election, and use his superior 
intellect and his infallible judgment and wisdom in 
adjusting matters and advising his friends, the two 
Hazelton men. 

He put away troublous questions and basked in 
the moonlight, his whole sensuous nature enthralled 
by the scenes and sounds and fragrances of the en¬ 
chanted night. He loved the dank coolness that 
came from a nearby grove of hemlocks and spruces; 


30 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


the wafts of perfume from the nearer gardens, and 
the spell of glamour thrown over it all by the round 
golden moon. 

But when he found himself murmuring “ Lap 
me in soft Lydian airs,” he laughed at himself for 
a maudlin idiot and ordered himself to bed. 

Undisturbed by Stanhope’s defection, the moon 
pursued her course across the cloud-sprinkled 
heavens, and she had scarcely neared the western 
horizon when the sun, following the same route, 
began the day’s journey. 

A few of the inhabitants of New Midian were up 
before the sun was, but not many. Only farmers 
and milkmen and such workers as could not consult 
their own pleasure. 

The pretty village was quiet, placid and serene, 
the white houses and the green shutters unmoving 
and motionless as they accepted the kisses of the 
intrepid sun. 

And then the day began. One front door after 
another was flung wide. One window shade after 
another was rolled up. Smoke came from the chim¬ 
neys, dogs began their joyous barking and baker’s 
carts moved along the roads. 

Practically speaking, there were no streets. The 
road each side of the Green was the residential sec¬ 
tion, though from it two or three side lanes branched 
forth. One of these contained the tradesmen’s shops 


THE TRAGEDY 


SI 


or markets, and another was the one on which stood 
the rambling, much-added-to structure now known 
as Gray Porches. 

The cottage Nevin Lawrence lived in was next 
to this, but was perhaps three hundred feet distant, 
and between the two, but much farther back from 
the road than either, was the cottage of Miss Lizzie 
Busby, far better known by her nickname of Busy¬ 
body Busby. 

As an astute reader may surmise, this was because 
of a certain feeling of intense interest in the affairs 
and doings of her fellow mortals and unceasing ef¬ 
forts to gratify that interest. 

Miss Busby was a music teacher, and report had 
it that she didn’t need the money, but pursued that 
calling because of the insight it gained for her into 
other people’s homes. 

So, on this fine morning, Miss Busby opened her 
front door and stood out on her tiny front porch to 
follow the example of a certain renowned lawgiver, 
and view the country o’er. 

She had a good view, too, for her house, though 
far back from the street was on a slight eminence 
which gave a satisfying command of the doings at 
Gray Porches and a fair knowledge of events at the 
Woodbine, as Lawrence’s cottage was called. 

At the larger house, Busybody Busby could see 
the maids spreading breakfast tables on the verandas, 


32 THE FURTHEST FURY 

adjusting awnings, and taking rolls from the 
baker's boy. 

Not very thrilling this, but there had been some 
new boarders arriving last night, and Busybody was 
alert to watch for their appearance. 

Woodbine cottage looked as usual, the well-be¬ 
haved, smoke issuing from the chimney in true 
spirals, and Emma Lily, the capable housekeeper, 
appearing now and then at the back door, on break¬ 
fast matters intent. 

Satisfied generally, Miss Busby sniffed the air, 
stepped down to look at the geranium bed, and then 
repaired to her own breakfast table, which she laid 
and furnished herself, and which stood near a win¬ 
dow commanding a gorgeous view of both houses. 

Up to date was Miss Busby and enjoyed her elec¬ 
tric coffee pot and toaster, while awaiting any moving 
picture of humanity that might unroll before her eyes. 

This morning she seemed a bit preoccupied. She 
poured out her coffee and buttered her toast with an 
air of abstraction and three times during the per¬ 
formance she rose and stood again in her front door¬ 
way for a moment. 

The guests were taking their places at the tables 
on the boarding house verandas and were saying to 
one another how delightful it was to breakfast out 
of doors in this fine August weather. 

At the cottage, Emma Lily was sitting on the 


THE TRAGEDY 


33 


back steps, idly twisting her apron corners, yet with 
an air of alert expectancy. 

Miss Busby easily read this to mean that break¬ 
fast was all prepared, but the family had not yet come 
down stairs. 

Another glance at Gray Porches and she went 
back to her coffee. 

Ben Gray and his also experienced wife were 
versed in the psychology of boarders, though they 
would not have used that word to designate the 
fruit of their many years' experience. 

But they had found out that a wholesome, well 
cooked simple breakfast took on a hundred per cent, 
added charm if served on a vine-clad veranda, at 
small and carefully appointed tables. 

And as this principle was the keynote of their 
whole menage it was not surprising that they always 
had their rooms filled, and that accommodations were 
booked months and even years ahead. 

The newcomers, six of them, were put at one 
table, and the waitresses heard anew the exclama¬ 
tions and enthusiastic praises of the place and the 
conditions. 

The new arrivals numbered among them the three 
ladies who came up on the train with Stanhope, and 
a middle aged pair from Boston with their intellec¬ 
tual daughter. 

3 


34 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


The Boston family, Endicotts, it being their sec¬ 
ond summer there—at once assumed an air of pro¬ 
prietorship in the table, and learning the names of 
the others, assured Mrs. Trent, the oldest, of their 
willingness to help and advise regarding walks, drives 
and such matters. To the other two, Miss Lowe and 
Miss Hemingway, Mr. Endicott offered the intelli¬ 
gent companionship of his daughter, and though the 
New York women were not entirely overcome by the 
honor of Endicott attention, they graciously re¬ 
sponded and the new table-full of people promptly 
became a sort of family affair, as did all the tables 
on the Gray Porches. 

“ New Midian is a beautiful village/’ said Lura 
Endicott, with the air of issuing an ultimatum, “ and 
it is picturesque, too, but to me its greatest charm 
is its air of peacefulness and courteous calm.” 

“ One does notice that,” agreed Mrs. Trent, glanc¬ 
ing out on the shade street, and letting her gaze stray 
to the two nearby houses. “ Who lives in that white 
house, back from the road? ” 

“ Miss Busby,” Mr. Endicott replied, and began 
to remark upon that well-known and estimable lady’s 
characteristics. 

“ She’s ubiquitous,” he said, smiling, “ you’ll see 
her everywhere—there she is now—” for at that 
moment Lizzie Busby made a trip to her front porch. 


THE TRAGEDY 


35 


But as the quiet and calm of Pompeii before the 
eruption of Vesuvius, as the quiet and calm of Sodom 
and Gomorrah before their destruction, as the quiet 
and calm of San Francisco before the earthquake, so 
was the peace and happiness of New Midian about 
to be jarred to its foundations by a tremendous shock. 

Even as Miss Busby stepped out of her front 
door into the morning sunlight, a running, shrieking 
figure appeared from the door of the Woodbine cot¬ 
tage, and fled blindly, stumblingly across the lawns 
toward Gray Porches. 

Screaming inarticulate sounds, waving her arms 
frantically, Emma Lily, the servant of Nevin Law¬ 
rence’s house came nearer until the Gray’s 
boarders could see her white face, working in a very 
convulsion of agony and terror. 

“ What can be the matter? ” cried Mr. Endicott, 
starting from his seat. But Ben Gray was before 
him and ran down the steps to meet the hysterical 
woman. 

“ They’re dead—they’re killed! ” she shrieked, 
clutching at the sleeve of Ben Gray. “ Come over, 
come right over—” 

Taking her by the arm, he strode along by her 
side and said no word as she babbled on: 

“Killed—dead—oh, my soul; what does it 
mean! ” 

“Both of whom?” said Gray, in dazed tones, 


36 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


though he had no doubt she meant Nevin Lawrence 
and Mrs. Sayre. 

“ Yes, murdered in their beds—oh, hurry! ” 

“ Be quiet, Emma Lily. If you can’t be quiet, 
at least, be as quiet as you can. Oh, here you are, Miss 
Busby!” for running true to form, Busybody was 
close at their heels. “ Now, don’t ask a question, 
just take care of this woman and make her shut up 
her howling, while I go in and investigate.” 

Gray was already at the door and burst into the 
house and up the stairs. 

As owner of the house, Gray was familiar with 
the rooms, and as he paused at the open door of the 
first bedroom, he saw a still figure stretched on the 
floor. A woman’s figure, clad in a nightdress and 
a yellow silk Kimono. She lay on her side in a 
crumpled heap, just inside the door. Her arms were 
flung above her head and forward, as if she were 
reaching for something. 

Gray stooped and saw at once she had been 
shot through the heart, evidently as she was 
about to cross her threshold. It was Mrs. Sayre, and 
with a gaze of pity and wonder, Gray went on to the 
room of Nevin Lawrence. 

“ Both of them,” the maid had said, and truly, 
for a second tragedy met his eyes. 

Lawrence’s body lay on his bed, contorted, as 
if he had died in a spasm of mortal agony. 


THE TRAGEDY 


37 


Ben Gray was overcome; strong, phlegmatic na¬ 
ture though he was, these two shocking sights com¬ 
pletely unnerved him and he ran downstairs and out 
into the air. The two women were on the porch, 
Emma Lily hysterical and garrulous and Miss Busby 
alertly curious and receptive. 

“ They’re dead—both of them,” Gray said, ex¬ 
citedly. “ Don’t go up there, anybody— we must 
keep everything clear for the detectives—it’s murder, 
you see. But I think I’d ought to call a doctor first— 
gee, I never was mixed up in anything like 
this before! ” 

One of the most experienced of the New Midian 
citizens, Ben Gray was up against a new proposition. 
He was honestly anxious to do his duty, but except 
in a general way he was ignorant of what he should 
do first. 

He strode back into the living room of the cot¬ 
tage and telephoned Doctor Duncan, who promised 
to come at once. 

“ Whew! ” Gray said, wiping his forehead, “ I 
can’t seem to think! First off, I knew I must send for 
a doctor, and now I’ve got to go back and tell my 
folks. The women’ll go plumb crazy! And I’m so 
sorry—but it don’t seem right to take time for that 
now — w ho could have killed that fine man ? And his 
sister! such a sweet, gentle lady—look here, Emma 
Lily, what do you know about this ? ” 


38 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Nothing, nothing, Mr. Gray. I got the break¬ 
fast as usual, and when they didn’t come down— 
and didn't come down, why, I went up—and I just 
only glimpsed ’em, and I ran out for you or some¬ 
body. It was too much for me to bear alone—” she 
broke off sobbing. 

“ I should say so,” and Lizzie Busby put a sooth¬ 
ing arm round her. “You come along home with 
me, Emma Lily—” 

“ No,” countermanded Gray. “ You stay right 
here, Emma Lily. You needn’t go upstairs, but you 
lock up the back of the house good, and you stay 
here in the front hall and don’t you let a soul in 
except the doctor when he comes, and then the police 
or whoever he sends for.” 

“ The police! ” cried the two women at once. 

“ Sure! This here is murder in the first degree! 
I know about these things, and I know we gotta 
keep the rabble out. Now, mind, don’t you let any¬ 
body in, no neighbors or no curious prying peepers. 
Of course, Constable Clary, if he gets here before 
Doc. Duncan, which he’s quite likely to do. My, 
how’ll I tell all my people ? ” 

Overburdened with his responsibilities, Ben Gray 
went back to Gray Porches and addressed the groups 
still breakfasting on his verandas. 

“ A terrible thing has occurred next door,” he 
said, simply, his sorrowful eyes roving from one face 


THE TRAGEDY 


39 


to another, as the guests turned to look at him. “ Mr. 
Lawrence and Mrs. Sayre have both been killed— 
murdered—don’t ask me any questions, for that’s 
all I know. I have sent for Doctor Duncan, and he 
will bring the constable and they will take charge. 
You all know these dear people,” his voice choked 
a little, “ except maybe, you who only arrived here 
yesterday afternoon. To you,” he turned to the 
table of the newest guests, “ I will say that Mr. 
Lawrence was one of our most looked up to citizens 
and his sister, Mrs. Sayre, one of the gentlest and 
most courteous ladies in our village society. I—I 
can’t say any more—” and with a sudden gasp of 
emotion, Gray went into the house. 

Now the summer boarders, at the best run and 
finest named boarding houses, are not all and always 
entirely above the vulgar vice of curiosity, and several 
of those at Gray Porches couldn’t resist the impulse to 
stroll over toward Woodbine cottage. They would 
have made for the Busby house, but Ben Gray had 
said that Miss Busby was with Emma Lily; the latter 
always well known as a “ character ” and now elevated 
to the position of a heroine. 

Only the older habitues of Gray Porches took 
this course, the newer ones and those not well ac¬ 
quainted with the victims of the tragedy, remaining 
on the porches, and secretly angling for the rocking 


40 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


chairs that commanded the best view of impend¬ 
ing events. 

“ I think we would better go right home at once,” 
Mr. Endicott informed his wife, but so absorbed was 
she in watching the arrival o>f two cars that came 
swiftly to the Woodbine cottage that she made 
no reply. 

The cars brought the doctor and the constable, 
and they went into the cottage and forbade anyone 
else to enter unless summoned. 

But in less than five minutes they called Emma 
Lily to their aid. 

“ What do you know about all this? ” the con¬ 
stable said, glaring at her through his glasses. 

Zeb Clary, like many another village constable, 
was the victim of greatness thrust upon him. He 
was no more fit to be a constable than any of his 
fellow citizens, but at least he was equally fit. He 
had shrewd common sense and fair judgment, and 
few in New Midian had more. 

But of experience in these matters he had none, 
and he deemed the proper procedure with a witness, 
especially a woman witness, was to intimidate. 

“ Come now, what do you know about it all ? ” 
he repeated, and his brusque, even rude manner 
roused Emma Lily’s ire. 

“ I don’t know nothing about it,” she declared, 
quite undaunted by his menacing glances. “ I waited 


THE TRAGEDY 


41 


breakfast so long that I got werrited, and as I couldn’t 
seem to make ’em hear by ringing a bell or by calling 
—I came up here—” 

“Why did you come up? Did you know they 
were dead? ” 

“ Listen at the man! Course I didn’t know they 
were dead—how could I ? But when they wouldn’t 
answer my yelling and screaming, why, naturally I 
came up here. Good land, Zeb Clary, don’t stand 
there making up fool questions! Get busy. Do 
something—” 

“ All necessary will be done, Emma Lily,” Doctor 
Duncan put in mildly; “what Mr. Clary wants to 
know, and I do, too, is how you found them. Just as 
they are now?” 

“ Sure, just as they are now—you don’t suppose 
I moved ’em, do you?” 

“ Then it looks as if Mr. Lawrence had been shot 
first, while asleep in bed, and that Mrs. Sayre, hear¬ 
ing the shot, had run from her room, and had herself 
been killed as she reached the doorway.” 

“Shot, was they?” asked Emma Lily, in an 
awestruck voice. “ Who did it ?” 

“We don’t know. Have you any idea?” 

“Land, no. Where’s the pistol?” 

“We can’t find any—” 

“ See here, Doc.,” Clary broke in, “ that ain’t 



42 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


the way to go about it. This here woman is a wit¬ 
ness—what we want is her story.” 

“ Oh, she hasn’t any story to tell, have you, Emma 
Lily? Did you hear any shots in the night? ” 

“ Land, no ! I’d a been scared to death myself 
if I had.” 

“ Where do you sleep? ” 

“ In the extension—the wing. It’s all shut off 
from this part of the house. They might fire a volley 
in here and I’d never know it.” 

“ Both were shot at very close range,” the doctor 
went on, making notes as he talked. “ Both were 
killed, probably, near the same time. I should say 
death took place about six or eight hours ago. It’s 
difficult to tell more exactly. As I see it, Mr. Law¬ 
rence was awakened by someone in his room, probably 
a burglar—I daresay he has some valuables—and 
killed before he could even get out of bed. Then, Mrs. 
Sayre, hearing her brother’s cries, rose from her bed, 
flung on her dressing gown and started to his aid, 
when she was met by the man and shot also. It may 
be she was killed only to prevent her revelation of 
the criminal.” 

“ Yes, yes,” agreed Clary, “ that’s just as I see 
it. The dastardly villian done for ’em both and then 
made a getaway. Anything missing, Emma Lily? ” 

“ I haven’t looked about yet—somehow, I can’t 


THE TRAGEDY 


43 


feel to go messin’ round among their things. 
Must I?” 

“ Well, it’s gotta be done, sooner or later,” Clary 
stated, looking judicially at her, “ and, you see, no¬ 
body knows any more about their belongings than 
you do, most likely. Jewelry, now, hey? ” 

“ They didn't have so very much,” the woman 
replied; “ Mr. Lawrence, now he had a pearl tie pin 
—I don’t see it,” she added, after a hasty glance 
among the appointments on the dresser. 

“ A real pearl ? ” 

“ Yes, and a fine one, I’ve heard him say. Any¬ 
ways, it’s gone. He always stuck it in this here little 
round cushion, and it ain’t here now.” 


CHAPTER III 


THE TANAGRA 

The Rocking Chair Phalanx at Gray Porches 
massed itself on the veranda that faced the Woodbine 
cottage and breathlessly watched the proceedings. 
And they were kept busy, for arrivals were con¬ 
tinuous and each newcomer seemed worthy of note 
and comment. 

“ There’s Coroner Fraser,” announced Mrs. 
Appleby, who as one of the older “ regulars ” had the 
best rocking chair and the most advantageous posi¬ 
tion, “ and Sheriff Rankin with ’im! Well, they’re 
two tip-top men, and I rather guess something ’ll be 
doing now. You see, Mrs. Endicott and Mrs. Trent,” 
for she had annexed these two newcomers with a 
shrewd eye to their possible social importance, “ I 
know everybody up here, and I can tell you.” 

The others were duly grateful, and listened to their 
informant, while watching with eager eyes the strange 
scenes before them. 

Neighbors had gathered, of course, and the 
Woodbine porch overflowed with curious humanity. 
Also people from more distant homes were arriving. 
Country people who had been marketing in the vil¬ 
lage, aristocrats from the Hill section, in their big 

44 


THE TANAGRA 


45 


cars, children on their way to school, delivery boys, 
all sorts and conditions of men had paused at the 
pretty white house, and stood in groups, wondering 
and asking questions. 

“ Looks like an auction, ’ceptin’ they ain’t no 
red flag,” said one of the Gray’s waitresses, for the 
great occasion had more or less broken down the 
barriers of convention. 

“ Seems ’sif I must go over there,” and Mrs. 
Appleby half rose, but fell back again as Mrs. Gray 
advised her to stay where she was. 

“ Better not, Mrs. Appleby, they won’t let you 
go into the house, I know, and you can see every¬ 
thing from here.” 

Sarah Gray was right, no one was allowed inside 
the house, but the authorities. County Sheriff 
Rankin was a capable man, and in this case, he had 
hurried over from his home in a nearby town, not 
willing to trust a matter of such importance to 
his deputies. 

“ Bad business, Fraser,” he said to the Coroner, 
as they started their examination of the premises. 

“ Righto,” returned Fraser, a sharp alert chap of 
few words, and those usually slangy. 

“ And whoever killed these people did it mighty 
cleverly,” Rankin went on; “ so far I’ve seen no 
clues.” 

“ Smart Aleck, sure,” agreed Fraser, who was 


46 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


darting about the rooms on the upper floor. “ No 
footprints, no fingerprints—■” 

“ Oh, you can’t be sure of that yet. But one thing 
is certain, they both put up a stiff fight for their lives.” 

“ I’ll say that,” put in Doctor Duncan, who was 
silently looking on. “ Lawrence’s attitude is that of 
one who was shot just as he prepared to make a 
lunge at his assailant.” 

“ Yep, keeled straight over back,” assented Fraser. 

“And as to Mrs. Sayre,” the doctor went on, 
“ she fairly fought like a tiger! Her outstretched 
arms, and her tensed muscles show it, as well as the 
fact that her silk robe is torn and her hair disordered. 
Strange nobody heard anything.” 

“ Maybe they did,” said Rankin. “We haven’t 
begun to question people yet.” 

“ And that’s what we’d better be up to,” said 
Fraser. “ Gawpin’ around here ain’t going to 
help much.” 

“ Hello, Fraser, may I come up? ” called a voice 
from the stairs, and some well brushed dark hair and 
a pair of blue eyes appeared in view. 

“ That you, Stanhope, where’d you drop from ? 
Yes, come along up. You know Doc Duncan and 
old man Rankin, don’t you? Now, give us the bene¬ 
fit of your gigantic on this matter.” 

Dave Stanhope, who had heard the news at the 


THE TANAGRA 


47 


post office, came up and shuddered as he saw the 
dreadful details of the scene. 

His quick eyes turned from the pitiful, still figures 
and took in the rooms and furnishings. 

The two largest and best bedrooms were those 
occupied by the unfortunate victims of the tragedy. 

On either side of the house, each had its own 
bathroom and each was quite evidently furnished with 
a care to the tastes of its occupant. 

Mrs. Sayre’s room was decorated in tones of 
Jonquil yellow, which with white painted woodwork 
and furniture made a soft, cool looking effect. The 
chintzes were harmonious and the latticed windows 
were draped with yellow chiffon curtains with tiny 
ruffles, which blew in and out like shimmering veils. 
The dressing table was elaborately appointed and 
well kept, with a spray of small yellow roses in a 
Venetian glass vase for decoration. 

In a bay window was a sewing table and a low 
rocker, and the window seat was piled with 
lacy pillows. 

Everything betokened quiet good taste, and 
showed beside an individual charm that reflected the 
character of the woman who had planned it all. 

And that woman lay, a dreadful sight, with torn 
kimono, disordered hair and crimson stained night 
dress, her features drawn in fear and anger, her 


48 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


arms stretched to full length toward the corner of 
the wall near which she lay. 

Reverently, yet with intense interest, Stanhope 
turned back to this figure. 

“ She fought bravely/’ he said; “ see, where she 
backed against the door—” 

“What? How do you know that?” cried 
Rankin. 

“ Look at that,” and Stanhope pointed to a few 
scratches on the white enameled paint of the door 
that gave into the hall. They were at the height of 
his shoulder and as he pointed to them he said, “ those 
were made by that comb that you see in her hair now. 
She stood like this,” he stepped to the door, “ and 
fought off the attacks as long as she could.” 

“ By jingo, you’re right,” and Fraser looked his 
admiration. “ I always said you were a born detec¬ 
tive, Dave.” 

“ Not at all. But I read a lot of detective yams 
and it makes me deductive, I suppose. Anyway I’m 
sure about this thing. In a room like this those dis¬ 
figuring scratches would not have been permitted to 
remain on that immaculate door.” 

“Well,” put in Rankin, “I don’t see as that’s 
much help. I observe Mrs. Sayre is wearing a sort 
of comb—-barrette is what they call those things— 
and like as not it did make those scratches, but what 


THE TANAGRA 


49 


of it ? They're not finger prints and they don’t get 
us anywhere, do they? ” 

Stanhope was kneeling over the prostrate form 
and with great care was lifting the shreds of torn 
silk and lace, and scrutinizing them. 

“ I trust you, Mr. Stanhope,” Rankin said, “not 
to disturb any evidence. I’ve seen all I want to, and 
I think Fraser, you’d better get at the inquest. Come 
along, Doctor Duncan. I’ll send a couple of men 
up here to stand guard.” 

Stanhope was left alone as the men trooped down¬ 
stairs, and being interested, he continued to gaze on 
the still beautiful face before him. He noted the long 
braid of dark hair, held at the top by the barrette 
of shell with a decoration of cut steel. He noted the 
hands were scratched and bruised and the waves of 
hair about the face were so tangled as to indicate a 
physical battle. 

Just as he heard the steps of the officers Rankin 
had sent up, he noticed what looked like a cobweb 
on the carpet. Half unconsciously, he brushed it up 
and rolled it flimsily between his fingers. 

He continued to examine the details of the dead 
woman’s clothing, but beyond observing that her 
night dress was of fine batiste with a touch of lace at 
the neck and short sleeves, and that she wore no 
jewelry save a wedding ring, he left the bedroom and 
went to the other one. 


4 


50 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


One of the policemen had now taken a seat in 
each room, but beyond a salutation they said no word 
to Stanhope, and he felt free to do as he chose. There 
was nothing to do, however, except to observe the 
furniture, yet try as he might he could find nothing 
that seemed to be a clue. 

The room of Nevin Lawrence, though quite dif¬ 
ferent in effect, was as well appointed as the other. 
The predominant coloring was old blue, and the 
walls were plain gray with white painted woodwork. 
His brushes and toilet appointments were of the best 
but not of an ornamental type. 

There were no fripperies or trinkets about, yet 
the room had an air of being well cared for. Even 
the arrangement of a few chicory blossoms in a sil¬ 
ver vase seemed to show a more appreciative eye for 
harmony than Emma Lily could boast, and Stanhope 
concluded that Mrs. Sayre was a devoted sister and 
looked after her brother’s aesthetic pleasure as well as 
his creature comforts. 

In this room there were no signs of a struggle. 
As had been already concluded, doubtless Nevin Law¬ 
rence was awakened only to meet his death an instant 
later. His apparent resistance was probably immedi¬ 
ate and instinctive, but quite useless against this 
determined murderer. 

As assumed, it was quite probable that Mrs. 
Sayre, hearing this shot had flung on her kimono as 


THE TANAGRA 


51 


she started for her brother’s room. Had been met 
at her own door by the desperate marauder, and had, 
after a short, fierce struggle, been herself shot down. 

Only one act of vandalism, which was doubtless 
an accident, Stanhope assumed, was to be seen in 
Lawrence’s room. 

A small terra cotta statuette lay on the floor 
broken into a score of fragments. 

“ A Tanagra Figurine! ” exclaimed Stanhope, 
picking up the bit that showed the face of the little 
figure. “ And a corking fine one. Wonder how the 
murderer came to upset only this valuable bit of bric- 
a-brac. But it must have been accidental, for if 
he had known its value he would have appropriated 
it himself. Wonder if it could be mended by an 
expert.” He was about to pick up the pieces when 
the officer on guard stopped him, with a courteous 
reminder that nothing was to be touched. 

“ And that’s right,” Stanhope agreed, “ there may 
be finger prints on those pieces.” 

Pausing only a moment longer to look over the 
names of the books on a reading table, Stanhope made 
his way downstairs. 

Coroner Fraser, who was brisk of action, already 
had his inquest well under way. It was rather a 
preliminary inquiry than a formal inquest, but Fraser 
was too anxious to ask questions quickly, to allow of 
any delay. So he was interviewing the servants first, 


52 THE FURTHEST FURY 

with a wary eye out for any hint as to which way to 
look next. 

As a matter of fact, the man was nonplussed. 
He knew Nevin Lawrence slightly, though he had 
never met Mrs. Sayre, and he could conceive of no 
reason any one could have for killing either of them, 
unless it had been a burglar. And burglars were un¬ 
known in this part of the country. Never had there 
been so much as a robbery in New Midian, and, 
moreover, so far as had yet been learned, nothing 
had been stolen. The silver was on the sideboard, 
Mrs. Sayre’s jewelry was in her dresser drawer, and 
though the pearl pin had not been found, it might 
yet turn up. 

So Fraser went ahead, methodically, hoping some¬ 
thing would occur to give him a hint of the truth. 

George Bailey, a clean cut young chap of twenty- 
five was being questioned when Stanhope reached the 
living room, where the inquiry was held. 

Bailey was the chauffeur, but he lived at home, 
and only arrived at the Woodbine each morning 
about nine o’clock or so. 

His story was of no evidential value whatever, 
for he only declared that he had gone home the night 
before at six o’clock, and not being wanted in the 
evening, had not returned until the next morning. 

“ Where were you last evening? ” asked Fraser. 

“Home to supper, spent the evening with my 


THE TANAGRA 


53 


girl, and home and to bed about ten,” was the suc¬ 
cinct reply. 

“Any witnesses to this?” Fraser snapped. 

“ Father, mother, and the rest of the family.” 

“ Who is your girl ? ” 

“ Rosie Gale. She works for Mrs. Lee, but she's 
home evenings.” 

The young man’s manner was straightforward 
and unembarrassed. Fraser was a pretty good judge 
of human nature, and he saw no reason for the slight¬ 
est suspicion of the chauffeur. But he said: 

“ You always on good terms with Mr 
Lawrence ? ” 

“ Best ever,” Bailey replied. 

“ Mrs. Sayre, too, of course? ” 

“ She was an angel, if ever there was one,” ex¬ 
claimed Bailey with tears in his eyes. 

And then, Fraser suddenly remembered that he 
ought to get the Doctor’s report at this juncture. 
As a coroner he was inexperienced, but he had a 
clear head and a fairly good idea of relative values. 

His informal jury of seven or eight citizens had 
been hastily recruited, but he wanted to give them 
all possible data to work on. 

Doctor Duncan in his grave, impressive way 
told of his findings. He said the brother and sister 
had been shot at nearly the same time, that both 
were killed at or near the hour of two in the morn- 


54 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


ing, that each died as the result of a bullet fired from 
a Smith & Wesson hammerless revolver of thirty- 
eight caliber. Both were shot through the heart at 
very close range, and the logical assumption was that 
both were killed by the same weapon and by the same 
person or persons. 

“You think Mr. Lawrence was shot first? ” 
Fraser asked. 

“ I do,” returned Doctor Duncan. “ Naturally 
the first shot would awaken the other sleeper, and 
as Mr. Lawrence was killed in his bed, I hold that 
the obvious conclusion is that the intruder shot him, 
and thereby awakened Mrs. Sayre, who arose and 
ran to his assistance. Then she was met at her own 
door and shot, probably because she was a dangerous 
witness to the crime. Had she not appeared, the 
murderer might have left without further delay. 
This, of course, is only surmise.” 

“ You think both these victims fought for their 
life?” 

“ I don’t think they had much opportunity for 
a fight; at least, Mr. Lawrence didn’t. It was a 
deliberate, cold-blooded assassin who attacked him, 
who stood near and shot with a calm and unswerv¬ 
ing aim.” 

“ Yet he was not shot in his sleep? ” 

“ I should say the approach of the murderer 
waked him, or maybe he was not asleep, yet saw 


THE TANAGRA 


55 


the danger too late to ward it off in any way. Mrs. 
Sayre, however, fought desperately. She evidently 
attacked her assailant, and was only killed 
after a wild fight.” 

“ Yet the noise of this did not arouse the 
neighbors.” 

“ That is the strange part of it all. None of the 
guests at Gray Porches next door seemed to be dis¬ 
turbed. This might lead to the surmise that the 
murderer was not a stranger to the victims.” 

“ Bring in that servant,” said Fraser abruptly. 

At a nod of summons the house-keeper came in 
from the kitchen. 

“ What is your name? ” the coroner said, look¬ 
ing at her severely. 

“ Emma Lily Stagg,” and the words snapped out, 
while the straight, strong woman stood with folded 
arms, looking like a grenadier. 

About forty, Emma Lily was the type of wiry 
strength and tireless capability so often seen in New 
England kitchens. She was above instruction, be¬ 
yond advice; she claimed to know it all, and usually 
made good her claim. She resented any interference 
in her own domain, but was quite ready to invade 
the domains of others. 

Janet Sayre had been annoyed at some of her 
idiosyncracies, but had found her services so indis- 


56 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


pensable, that any little misunderstanding was 
quickly patched up. 

“ How long have you worked for Mr. 
Lawrence? ” 

“’Bout two years.” 

“You found him a kind master?” 

“ Couldn’t be better. Both of ’em—white clear 
through.” 

“ Paid you good wages? ” 

“ All I asked.” 

“And had Mr. Lawrence or Mrs. Sayre made 
any provision for you by will ? ” 

“ Yes—sir—ee! They each of ’em bequested me 
a thousand dollars, and that’s the only ray o’ sun¬ 
shine in this vale of tears! ” 

“ Ah, they each willed you a thousand dollars! 
That seems a great deal.” 

“ Yep, it seems so to me, too. But it’s the truth.” 

“ And you’re glad to have the money—you were 
in haste to get it-—” 

“ Now, see here, Mr. Coroner, don’t you go to 
hingin’ no aspersions! If you mean did I kill these 
two people to get that money, I didn’t, and nobody 
can prove I did.” 

She looked round the room with a belligerent 
air, which was not entirely devoid of fear. Her 
face was white and her small black, shoe-button eyes 


THE TANAGRA 


57 


darted from one face to another as if she found 
herself up against some unexpected menace. 

“ I say, nobody can prove I did! ” and this time 
her tone was truculent. 

“ Nobody’s trying to prove anything but the 
truth,” said the coroner. “ Now just tell us all you 
can of the happenings of last evening. Were Mr. 
Lawrence and his sister alone at dinner? ” 

“ Yes, they wasn’t no comp’ny. Not that we o ften 
do have comp’ny—jest now and then a few neigh¬ 
bors, but only now and then.” 

“ And after dinner? ” 

“Why, after dinner, lemmesee, I did up the 
dishes, and I set on the back porch a spell—Miss 
Busby, she ran over for a minute—and then I went 
to bed fairly early.” 

“ No callers? ” 

“ No—oh, yes, young Hazelton, he came—’long 
’bout nine, I should judge.” 

“ How long did he stay? ” 

“ I don’t know. They never required me to stay 
to tend door in the evenings. I did let Barker Hazel- 
ton in, but I don’t know when he went away. Mrs. 
Sayre, she went out a few minutes, just to run over to 
the liberry to change her books, and then, after Lizzie 
Busby talked to me, she went in the house for a 
few minutes, and then soon after that, I let Bark 
Hazelton in and then directly I went up to bed. My 


58 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


room is in the extension, and from it I can’t see any¬ 
body cornin’ or goin’ nor hear them neither.” 

“ Well, Emma Lily, you’ve mixed me up a little. 
Now, was Miss Busby your caller or Mrs. Sayre’s? ” 

“ Why, both? She ran over from her house, 
and passed the time with me on the back steps where 
I was settin’ and then she says: ‘ The folks in the 
house ? ’ and I says yes, and she went through the 
kitchen and along in. It was just about then I seen 
Mrs. Sayre go out to the liberry.” 

“All right, and then young Hazelton called? ” 

“Yes, in a few minutes or so; I dunno exactly. 
Miss Busby she was there when Barker came in.” 

“And after you went to your room, you heard 
no unusual or suspicious sounds all through the 
night? ” 

“ Not a bit of it. Of course, my room is on 
the far side of the house, I mean away from the 
neighbors and from the village. Anything I’d hear 
would be somebody coming along the road from the 
other way.” 

“ And you didn’t? ” 

“ Nothin’ that I noticed. Mighta been a motor 
car or two, or some spoonin’ couples walkin’ out. 
But I didn’t notice nothin’.” 

“ And then, this morning? ” 

“ Well, this morning everything was just as al¬ 
ways, till they didn’t come down, and I waited and 


THE TANAGRA 


59 


I called, and I couldn’t hear no sounds, so I ran up 
—and I saw ’em.” 

" All right, Emma Lily. Now just one question 
more about last evening. When Mr. Hazelton 
called, what sort of a temper was he in? ” 

“ What sort of a temper! ” the woman’s face went 
white. “ Land! You don’t suspect Bark of the mur¬ 
der, do you ? ” 

“ Don’t ask questions, answer them,” Fraser said 
sternly. “ And tell the truth.” 

“ Well, then, he was kinder mad. He had a 
quiet, still look on his face that was like he was 
just determined ’bout somethin’.” 

“ What did he say to Mr. Lawrence first? ” 

“ Good land, how do I know ? I ain’t a re¬ 
porter—” 

“ Answer my question.” 

“ Why, I s’pose he said How de do, or somethin’ 
like that.” 

Fraser looked at her steadily. He was a man 
of quick intuition, and he sensed the woman’s reluc¬ 
tance to speak. He even shook a threatening fore¬ 
finger at her, as he said, “ No more of that quibbling, 
tell me what he said.” 

“ Well, then,” Emma Lily was cowed into sub¬ 
mission, “ he said, ‘ I’ve come to settle that matter 
once for all, Mr. Lawrence. You’ve got to put up 


60 THE FURTHEST FURY 

or shut up.’ But the boy didn’t mean anything by 
that.” 

“ Never mind what he meant, stick to what he 
said. Then what did Mr. Lawrence say? ” 

“ He said, right pleasantly, ‘ sit down, Hazelton, 
let’s talk it over/ and that’s all I heard, by that time 
I was goin’ through the door to the kitchen.” 

Emma Lily’s story seemed finished, but before 
Fraser could proceed there was an interruption. 

Someone had arrived at the front door who in¬ 
sisted on admittance. 

“ I must see her,” a hollow, quavering voice said. 
“ I must see her! ” 

And then they heard hesitating, unsteady steps 
ascending the stairs. Stanhope from his seat in the 
living room, commanded a view of the hall and to 
his utter amazement, he saw that the man on the 
stairs was the white-faced man he had seen on the 
train coming up from New York the day before. 

“ Now what does that mean? ” he asked himself; 
but, trusting to the discretion of his assistant police¬ 
men, Frazer paid no attention to the incident and 
called his next witness. 

In a moment, Stanhope saw the man come back 
downstairs, and with bowed head go out of the front 
door and walk slowly along the country road that 
led away from the village. 


THE TANAGRA 


61 


His face was of the same chalk-white that had 
attracted Stanhope’s notice so strongly, and as he 
went out, through the door, he said softly, to some¬ 
body, “ no, it ain’t the one I thought it was. It’s a 
terrible thing, but I don’t know these people.” 

“ A queer old duck,” Stanhope said to himself. 
“ And it’s none of my business, but if I were a coroner 
or a sheriff, I’d ask a few questions of that white¬ 
faced man! ” 


CHAPTER IV 


FATHER AND SON 

Stanhope, without his host, had gone down to 
the village in the Hazelton motor. They had dropped 
Barker Hazelton at the railway station to take the 
earliest train for New York. Then Stanhope, with 
the chauffeur had gone the marketing rounds, and 
hearing of the Woodbine tragedy and knowing the 
coroner pretty well, had gone there and remained 
for some time. 

But when he heard the tale of Barker’s call on 
Nevin Lawrence the night before, Stanhope con¬ 
cluded it was time for him to go back and tell Amos 
Hazelton about it. 

He had no trouble in finding the Hazelton car, 
for Martin, the chauffeur, was among the crowd that 
was blocking the road and choking the path that led 
to the house. 

Reaching Hazel Hill, Stanhope told Amos the 
details as far as he knew them. 

And he had scarcely finished when two men in 
plain clothes arrived and demanded to see Barker 
Hazelton. 

“ He’s gone to New York,” his father said, “ can 
I be of any use? ” 

62 


FATHER AND SON 


63 


“ Well, can you tell me anything of your son’s 
movements last night? ” 

The man, Lewis by name, was frank and courte¬ 
ous of manner, but his eye was alert and his tone 
a bit sharp. 

“ Before I answer your question,” Hazelton said, 
“ will you tell me why you want to know ? ” 

“ As this gentleman here can witness, the inquest 
down at Woodbine cottage has brought out evidence 
that your son called there last night and is the last 
person so far known to have seen Mr. Nevin Law¬ 
rence alive.” 

Amos Hazelton looked grave. 

“ I am sorry to say,” he began, “ I can tell you 
nothing at all of my son’s movements last evening. 
I only know that after dinner he went down to the 
village as he does nearly every night. I don’t know 
what time he came home, as he has a latch key and 
comes and goes as he chooses. He was at breakfast 
this morning and left the house just on time to catch 
the eight-thirty train for New York. He will be 
home about five or six this afternoon, I suppose.” 

“ Know where I can get in touch with him in 
New York? ” 

“ No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. But he’ll show up 
all right this afternoon. Now, Mr. Lewis, don’t 
mince matters. Is my boy suspected of this crime ? ” 

“ No, sir, I’m not prepared to say that. But, 


64 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


as you must understand, it is necessary to question 
him. He was known to be at the Lawrence house 
from about nine o’clock on, and also, he was known 
to be in a bad temper.” 

“Yes, and it is common knowledge that Mr. 
Lawrence and my son were rival candidates for the 
presidency of the Country Club. But, to my mind, 
that doesn’t imply a murderous impulse in my son’s 
heart.” 

“ Nor to my mind, either, Mr. Hazelton. But 
you must see that we want an interview with him. 
He might give us important information as to the 
murderer.” 

“ All I can promise is that I will let you know 
as soon as he returns home.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself about that. He will be 
met at the station. But what we want is to get him 
home sooner. You can give us no idea where he is 
spending the day ? ” 

“ Not the least. It is Barker’s vacation this 
month, and he naturally idles about. He is oftenest 
at home, but he runs down to the city or to the sea¬ 
shore now and then. But he almost never stays away 
over night without letting me know of his plans.” 

“Is your son possessed of a quick temper?” 

“ Very quick. But I cannot think he belongs to 
the criminal class.” 


FATHER AND SON 


6 £> 

“ Not all crimes are committed by the criminal 
class. It has been said there is nothing essentially 
incongruous between crime and culture. Not that 
I am making any accusations. I merely want to show 
that it is necessary to interview Mr. Barker Hazelton 
as soon as may be. I bid you good morning.” 

The two men went away, the second one not 
speaking, except bare civilities, and Amos Hazelton 
turned a despairing face to his friend. 

“ Bad lookout, Dave. My boy has fairly a gun¬ 
powder temper. He flies into a passion in a moment.” 

“ Oh, come, now, Amos, don’t be scared by those 
men. They’re more self important than logical. They 
saw you were frightened and they hoped to get some 
admission out of you. Now, you and I know Barker 
couldn’t possibly have done this thing, and the worst 
course for us to take is to admit that he possibly 
could.” 

“ But he could have done it. You don’t know 
Bark as I do. You haven’t seen him for the last 
few years. He’s a strange chap, and I wouldn’t 
vouch for what he would or wouldn’t do in a moment 
of sudden, fierce anger.” 

“ But for a matter of a club election, to kill two 
people! It’s preposterous!” 

" Preposterous or not, there’s a possibility. Now, 
I trust to you to help me. You’re up on these sub¬ 
jects, crime, murder—all that. And you must advise 

5 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


me. Shall I try to locate Bark and tell him not to 
come home? ” 

Stanhope looked at his friend in amazement. 

“ Keep your head, Amos,” he said, almost im¬ 
patiently. “ It’s too absurd to talk that way! Why 
the boy hasn’t been accused! ” 

“ But he will be! I know that Lewis, he lives 
over Beechfield way, and he belongs to the State 
Police. He’s got it in his head that Bark is guilty—” 

“ Well, he’ll have to get it out! ” Stanhope broke 
in. “ Now, you leave this thing to me. As you 
say, I know more or less of such matters and if 
Barker isn’t guilty, rest assured he’ll have no trouble 
or bother in the matter. If he is—I’ll take charge 
of the whole affair.” 

“ Another thing, Eleanor will hear of this, it’ll 
be in the papers. I must go to her.” 

“ Just where is she? ” 

" She and Nell are in the White Mountains, at 
Profile House. I’ll go right up there.” 

“ No, wait till you see Barker. Your wife and 
daughter will not see to-morrow’s papers until to¬ 
morrow evening, and of course, there’ll be nothing 
in to-day’s papers. Tell me more about these 
Lawrences.” 

“ There’s so little to tell. At least I know little. 
Nothing, in fact, beyond their estimable qualities and 
general popularity. That’s the worst of it, nobody 


FATHER AND SON 


67 


could have a thing against Nevin Lawrence. If he 
had been a man who made enemies there might have 
been suspects. But he was a favorite with all sorts 
and classes. And as for his sister, everybody adored 
her. There never have been people in New Midian 
more universally admired and respected.” 

“ Did he come and settle in this little place to 
get characters for his stories? ” 

“ I don’t think so. I never heard of his using 
any of us. His stories are, I think, purely imaginary. 
He said he came here because he was attracted by 
the beauty of the place, and he and his sister wanted 
a quiet little home with a garden, not too far from 
New York.” 

“ Know anything about his family or an¬ 
tecedents? ” 

“ I don’t; but then I don’t know him intimately 
at all. You see, he’s a younger man than I am, and 
though he’s older than Barker they’ve been chummy.” 

“ How old was Lawrence, do' you suppose? ” 

“ Less than forty—thirty-eight, or so, likely. 
Mrs. Sayre, my wife said, not a day over thirty.” 

“Mrs. Hazelton liked them both? ” 

“ Oh, yes, very much. I tell you, everybody did.” 

“ And what was the cause of this great 
popularity ? ” 

“ Nothing, except that they were cultured, refined 
people, with a good sense of humor, and a kindly 


68 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


courtesy to all the village. They minded their own 
business, but they were always ready to take part in 
any general celebration or subscribe to any town 
project. They were devoted to each other, and al¬ 
ways ready and willing to entertain and be enter¬ 
tained. They belonged to the various clubs, and 
were good mixers, though they spent a lot of time 
at home. Seemed to enjoy their home, always adding 
a pergola or a garden seat, or a new bay window.” 

“ Own the house ? ” 

“No, Lawrence rented it from Ben Gray, but 
there was talk lately of his buying it. What I’m get¬ 
ting at is, that I know of no neighbor or villager 
who could have done this thing. I don’t believe for 
a minute that it was a burglar—they were not 
wealthy people—and so, what theory is left but some¬ 
one of a quick temper striking in anger! ” 

“ But, hold on, Amos, you’re far too ready to 
think evil of your own son. These people had gone to 
bed and to sleep. Barker must have left there some 
time before.” 

“ Oh, I know, I know—but—well, I may as well 
tell you—Barker came home last night, and went 
to his room. Then later he went back down to the 
village again.” 

“ You’re sure? ” 

“ Saw him. Bright moonlight, you know. Saw 


FATHER AND SON 


69 


him go out about midnight and he came back much 
later. I didn't see him come in but I heard him. ,, 

“ At what time ? ” 

“ I didn't look, but it was perhaps a couple of 
hours later—say about two." 

David Stanhope was troubled. It began to look 
at least a little dubious for the son of his friend. 

But he only said, “ cut it all out, don't think 
about it until we can get Barker’s own story. Why, 
Amos, its too absurd to imagine one man killing 
another to be president of a foolish little village club!" 

“ It’s really a county club, and a rather large and 
important one." 

“ But to kill a man because he prefers not to 
carry a flask in his hip pocket! " 

“ It isn’t that, it’s the principle. I’ve heard Bark 
discuss it again and again. He says the liberty of 
the club members should not be so prescribed. Says 
the U. S. A. can make laws for its citizens, but per¬ 
sonal liberty cannot be trammeled by a fellow man. 
Oh, I know his attitude, and Lawrence felt just the 
opposite. I sided with Lawrence, I admit, but of 
course, I didn’t say that to Barker, except in a 
guarded way." 

“ Well, I’m going back to the inquest. I suppose 
it’s still going on. Coroner Fraser is nobody’s fool, 
and he’s very careful and exact but he’s mortal slow. 


70 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


I’ll bet he hasn’t called more than two or three wit¬ 
nesses yet. Will you go Amos ? ” 

“No. At first I thought I would, but I’ll stay 
here. You see, Barker might come home—er—on 
the quiet.” 

“ He might, but he won’t. I believe I know that 
chap better than you do, if you are his father. If 
he had killed a man, the first thing he’d do would be 
to give himself up.” 

“ I’ll stay home anyway. You go along down, 
Dave, and can’t you be around the station when the 
afternoon trains come in? You can command 
the car.” 

“Yes, I’ll do that. By the way, that man Law¬ 
rence wears a ring—a fine catseye. Now, I haven’t 
much use for a man who’ll wear a ring.” 

“ Don’t carry such fastidiousness too far. It was 
a good dignified, manly-looking affair. I don’t ap¬ 
prove of rings for men, either, but remember he was 
a literary man, and they’re allowed a little extra 
liberty in such matters. Take my word for it, Nevin 
Lawrence was a real man—a man’s man, ring or 
no ring.” 

When Stanhope reached Woodbine Cottage again, 
Fraser was grilling Emma Lily. 

But Dave learned that it was a second inter¬ 
view, there had been an interval during which the 
wills of the deceased had been produced and read. 


FATHER AND SON 


71 


As the house-keeper had told, there was a bequest to 
her of one thousand dollars from Mr. Lawrence and 
another thousand from Mrs. Sayre. The local lawyer 
had drawn the wills and brought them to read. 

Nevin Lawrence’s will provided that at his death 
everything of his should become the property of Mrs. 
Janet Lawrence Sayre, and Mrs. Sayre’s will, in 
turn left everything to Nevin Lawrence. 

Both wills also provided that if the legatee were 
not alive, the property should revert to the New 
Midian Library, in which institution both testators 
had shown a deep and abiding interest. 

As the lawyer had summed it up, although the 
medical evidence declared the deaths were nearly 
simultaneous, the detectives felt sure that Mr. Law¬ 
rence died first. Yet, in either case, the property of 
the one who died first became the property of the 
survivor, and since both were now dead, both estates 
were surely the property of the Library Corporation. 

As the minor bequests, the two thousand to Emma 
Lily and one thousand to George Bailey, the chauf¬ 
feur, were unchanged by these decisions, there was no 
one to object. 

Much discussion was indulged in regarding the 
possible heirs or relatives of the dead brother and 
sister, and it was proposed to advertise for any news 
of such, but no criticism was heard of the silence of 
the two as to their previous home or kindred. 


72 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ They made no secret of it,” declared Emma 
Lily, “ they made no secret of anything. They used 
to live in Chicago, and when Mr. Lawrence took up 
his writing notion, he wanted to be near New York 
’count of his editor’s bein’ there. And they didn’t 
like city life, so they came here, where there was good 
train service to New York. I’ve heard Mr. Law¬ 
rence say that time and again. They wasn’t no mys¬ 
tery about those two, of that I’m certain.” 

But the ever alert Fraser had the editor in ques¬ 
tion rung up on the telephone. 

“Why, I don’t know much about Lawrence,” 
that dignitary responded. “ He was a most courte¬ 
ous, rather scholarly man. He wrote stories and I 
printed them. That’s about all I know of him, ex¬ 
cept his home address and the price I paid him 
per word.” 

The investigation of Lawrence’s writing table 
gave no more light on his private affairs. To be sure, 
his records and check books revealed the price he was 
paid for his stories and the prices he paid out for 
his purchases, but these were all of the most natural 
and usual description. 

Mrs. Sayre had charge accounts at the New York 
shops, as did Lawrence. Her feminine belongings 
were on bills made out to herself and paid by her 
own checks. Purchases for the house or for the 


FATHER AND SON 


73 


table, as well as his own apparel or library supplies 
were paid by Lawrence. All these bills and statistics 
were in order, yet things were not itemized down to 
the last penny. There was no cheese paring. 

“ Just as I should do such things myself,’’ Stan¬ 
hope soliloquized, as he looked over the desk. 

All in all, there was no cause to suspect anything 
mysterious or bizarre about the life or death of two 
such normal, admirable characters, nor was there 
the slightest evidence that any secret matter had led 
to the double tragedy. 

“ It’s too easy,” Fraser summed up. “ It’s either 
that Emma Lily, who couldn’t wait for her fortune, 
or it was a passing highwayman. I know they don’t 
infest these parts, but there might have been one all 
the same. You needn’t tell me young Hazelton killed 
these two for a fool quarrel about a club matter! ” 

This he said to Dave Stanhope, who was not 
only an old friend but a wise and deep thinker, and 
in whose opinions Fraser had a deal of confidence. 

“ What about that broken statuette ? ” asked Stan¬ 
hope, suddenly. 

“ Knocked down in the scuffle—” 

“ But there was no scuffle in Lawrence’s room—” 

“ That’s so; look here, Emma Lily, who broke the 
little statue in Mr. Lawrence’s room?” 

“ Whoever did the killin’! ” she returned sol- 


74 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


emnly. “ I say—whoever did the killin', that ’er 
Tangerine—” 

“ That what ? ” 

“ Tangerine they always called it.” 

Stanhope interposed. “ She means Tanagra Fig¬ 
urine. They’re rather valuable. But I want to know 
how it happened to get smashed.” 

Musta been knocked off by the murderer,” 
declared Emma Lily, looking disinterested. 

But then it would have been broken only in 
two or three pieces. This was smashed to bits— 
looked as if it had been ground with somebody’s heel 
in anger.” 

“Maybe it was,” came the imperturbable re¬ 
sponse. “ I say, maybe it was. The man musta been 
furious mad to kill ’em at all—both of ’em. So, 
why wasn t he mad enough to bite a tenpenny nail in 
two or smash a little clay statue? ” 

“ Yes > but wh Y would he? ” Stanhope persisted. 

“ 1 don’t know,” Emma Lily said. 

Fraser watched her closely. He had it so firmly 
in mind that she was the murderer, he was so sure 
that she was clever enough to act any sort of an 
innocent part, that he tried his best to trip her up. 
It might well be, he thought, that there had been 
some fuss about the little curio—perhaps it had led 
Jo a row, and the woman had smashed the lovely 
piece of art in sheer spite and venom. 


FATHER AND SON 


75 


Fraser couldn’t quite make out Emma Lily, and 
he studied her hard. To begin with, she was a little 
too cocky, he thought. Of course she was in charge 
of the house, but she put on too many airs and as¬ 
sumed too dictatorial a manner to please him 
entirely. 

“ You must know a lot about these two people,” 
Fraser said to her, sternly. You couldn’t live with 
them and not know more or less about their every¬ 
day life.” 

“ But it’s less,” Emma Lily cried, triumphantly. 
She seemed to enjoy disappointing her inquisitor. 
“I’ve served their meals and took care of their rooms 
for nigh on two years, but I don’t know any more 
about them than any of their neighbors do. Maybe 
not half as much as some,” and she sent a meaning 
glance at Busybody Busby, who was listen¬ 
ing intently. 

The inquest had become a mere informal talk, 
but Fraser felt sure he could get at the truth better 
this way than any other. He still had Busybody up 
his sleeve, but he wanted to polish off Emma Lily 
first. 

“You are pretty smart to do all the work of 
this house. To get the meals and take care of the 
whole house is no small task for one woman.” 

Emma Lily looked rather pleased than otherwise 


76 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


at this tribute to her efficiency, and said with a touch 
of modesty: 

“ Well, Mrs. Sayre helped more or less with the 
upstairs work. I say she helped more or less. The 
living room, too, and Mr. Lawrence’s study. I 
swep’ and dusted, but she liked to fiddle around with 
the ornaments and books, and she always fixed the 
flowers.” 

Stanhope nodded at his own perspicacity in hav¬ 
ing realized there was the touch of a loving hand 
to be noted in the household appointments, but Fraser 
was on another track. 

“And you meddled with the little statue, and 
broke it—was that it ? ” 

“ Nothing of the sort! ” Emma Lily almost 
screamed. “I never harmed the thing. I never 
touched it—never had it in my hand! Nobody can 
prove I did! ” 

“ Your word is enough,” said Fraser, contemp¬ 
tuously; “nobody wants to prove you did. But its 
queer how it is smashed up,” 

He looked contemplatively at the bits and scraps 
of red clay, which had been collected in a pasteboard 
box. He was most anxious to bolster up his theory 
that Emma Lily had broken the statuette, had been 
scolded, and had—but he suddenly saw his theory 
as absurd and with a sigh he turned to pastures new. 

These were the boarders at Gray Porches. Many 


FATHER AND SON 


77 


of them had come over, and were only too ready and 
willing to give voluble and tautological evidence that 
was no evidence at all. 

He warded them off with difficulty, learning first 
of all from Ben Gray and his wife that neither of 
them had heard or seen anything unusual or sus¬ 
picious in the neighborhood during the night. 

All the servants of the boarding house asserted 
the same thing. All the guests whose rooms faced 
toward Woodbine were interrogated and all denied 
having any knowledge of the least disturbance 
of any sort or kind. 

Miss Lizzie Busby, seemed fairly bursting with a 
desire to be called as a witness, but Fraser knew she 
would keep—knew, too, her reputation for news 
and gossip, and preferred to ask the others first. 

There were few others. Gray Porches, Miss 
Busby’s house and Woodbine cottage were the only 
residences on that street—or lane, as it merely was. 

The Lawrence chauffeur was not on duty at 
night, and slept at his mother’s house in the village. 
The Busby servant also slept at home, and came 
around mornings when she got good and ready. 

So the Gray Porches people being done up, and 
the milkman and baker having been able to offer no 
helpful word, Fraser found elimination had brought 
him to Busybody Busby and he called on her. 

“ But,” he whispered to Dave Stanhope, “ don’t 


78 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


put too much faith in her yarns. She knows it all, 
she’s the town gossip, you know, and she doesn’t 
hesitate to embroider her stories, if she thinks she 
can make an impression.” 

“ Put her on oath,” suggested Dave. 

“ Can’t exactly do that, at an informal inquiry. 
But maybe I can scare her into telling the truth. 
Trouble is, I don’t believe she has anything to tell. 
She’ll make it up.” 

There was a silence as the little old maid came 
forward and took the seat designated for her. 

She was not ill-looking, but her pale, ashen hair 
was lusterless, and her faded blue eyes rather weak 
and reddened, as if she had wept. 

She had a wistful face in repose, but when talk¬ 
ing, she forgot herself in her enthusiasm and her 
expression became animated, even dramatic in its 
intensity. 


CHAPTER V 
busybody's story 

Fraser was a little uncertain just how it would 
be best to get at Miss Busby’s story. He hesitated 
to intimidate her, lest she should get stubborn and 
tell nothing. And he feared to let her tell her own 
version, for she might ramble on unendingly and 
perhaps fictitiously. 

So he said in rather a stem way: 

“ Miss Busby, can you tell anything definite and 
important that will help us in the investigation of 
this matter? ” 

“ I should say I could! ” she fairly exploded. 
Her eyes brightened, her manner became animated 
and she quivered with eagerness to begin. 

“ Let her do it,” counseled Stanhope, and Fraser 
nodded acquiescence. 

“Well, late last night, I was looking out of 
my window—” 

“ Wait a minute,” Fraser interrupted, “ begin 
at the beginning. Go back to your visit here in the 
evening.” 

For some unaccountable reason Miss Busby 
blushed scarlet. A wave of color swept over her 
pale face and she bit her lip in an effort to retain 
her composure. 


79 


80 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Emma Lily watched her curiously, and nodded 
her head as if in satisfied confirmation of some already 
drawn conclusion. 

But Busybody Busby couldn’t be daunted for 
long. Picking up her courage, she began again. 

“ All right, then. I ran over here for a few 
minutes’ chat, last evening and I found Emma Lily 
on the back porch and talked with her.” 

“ About what? ” 

“ Must I tell? ” 

Her air of dismay tempted Fraser and he said, 
sternly, “ yes, tell the conversation as nearly as you 
remember it.” 

“ All right, then. We talked about the new 
boarders over at Gray’s and I said I thought the big 
woman from New York was handsome but I didn’t 
think much of the two old maids; and she thought 
that Mrs. Endicott from Boston was—” 

“ Stop! How dare you talk like that? ” Fraser 
was so shocked that he fairly quivered with rage. 

“ You ordered me to tell,” Miss Busby said, se¬ 
renely, “ and that was all we talked about. We always 
talk over the new boarders as they come.” 

The new boarders in question, who were present, 
showed their indignation in various ways, and the 
Grays themselves looked as if they would willingly 
see Miss Busby boiled in oil. 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


81 


Fraser felt that only an immediate change of 
subject could save the situation, so he said: 

“After your talk on the back porch, you came 
on into the house ? ” 

“ I did,” replied Miss Busby who greatly enjoyed 
the commotion she had caused. 

“ What for? ” 

“ What for? Merely to visit a few minutes with 
Mrs. Sayre and her brother and maybe talk the new 
boarders over with them.” 

“ Miss Busby, I want your evidence, but I must 
ask you to refrain from personal remarks.” 

“ Oh, all right. Well, I got in here and Mrs. 
Sayre was just starting to run over to the library. 
Run ahead I told her, and I’ll keep Mr. Lawrence 
comp’ny till you get back.” 

“ And did you ? ” 

“ Well, no.” Again that blush stole over the 
cheeks of the witness, and Fraser began to suspect 
it had to do with Nevin Lawrence. This surmise 
was strengthened by the sly look on the face of 
Emma Lily. 

But Miss Busby continued calmly, “ you see, 
young Hazelton came, and I thought as the two 
men likely’s not wanted to talk about the club busi¬ 
ness, I’d better get along home. So I went.” 

“ Now, tell me, Miss Busby, you’re observant, 

6 


82 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


what did you notice about Barker Hazelton ? I mean, 
was he in an angry mood? ” 

“ Well, he was.” She put her head on one side, 
as if considering carefully. “ Not that I’d do that 
young man a mite o’ harm. But I must say he was. 
He was hardly inside the door before he was threaten¬ 
ing Mr. Lawrence—” 

“ Oh, come, now, Miss Busby, what do you mean 
by threatening? ” 

“ Well, he was saying that Mr. Lawrence better 
look out or—” 

“ Or what?” 

“ Good land! I don’t know. He was just bluster¬ 
ing as boys will. Mr. Lawrence he was very cool 
and calm—and, do you know, I think that made 
Bark madder’n ever, and when I left he was shaking 
his fist in Mr. Lawrence’s face—” 

“ Shaking his fist? ” 

“ Well, anyway—he was mad as hops—” 

“ Now look here, Miss Busby, this is evidence, 
not merely opinions—be careful what you say.” 

Dave Stanhope listened with growing ap¬ 
prehension. 

Better than Fraser he knew the uncertain value 
of the evidence of a talkative woman. He knew that 
if Miss Busby felt she was creating a sensation by 
her story, she would enlarge on it and touch up its 
picturesque points beyond actual truth. 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


83 


Moreover, he knew that if Fraser should think 
there was any reason to suspect Barker Hazelton, he 
would question Miss Busby toward that idea and she 
would follow his lead. 

Knowing young Hazelton as he did, Stanhope 
felt there was necessity for inquiry into his move¬ 
ments the night before, but it should be made dis¬ 
creetly, even privately, and the boy should not be 
thrown to the waiting crowd, so ready and eager to 
believe the worst. 

For human nature is like sheep, and the breathless 
audience all agog for a suspect to pounce upon, were 
quite ready to tumble over each other in any direc¬ 
tion that might be hinted at. 

In his quiet, pleasant way, Stanhope put in a 
word. 

“ Try to picture the scene to yourself, Miss 
Busby,” he suggested. “ Where were you? ” 

“ In the library—I was just going out to go home, 
as Barker came in.” 

“ Then you three were standing—” 

“ Yes, we were, I can see it plain enough! Of 
course I didn’t say anything, the men were both 
angry—” 

“And then, Barker shook his fist at Mr. Law¬ 
rence—which fist ? Did you know he is left-handed ?” 

“Of course. And he shook his left fist in Mr. 
Lawrence’s face—” 


84 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ And in his right hand, I suppose he held that 
little Malacca cane he always carries in the evening—” 

“ Yes, he did! And he was as mad—” 

“ Wait a moment, Miss Busby,” and Stanhope 
looked at her sternly now, “ Barker Hazelton is not 
left-handed, and to my certain knowledge he never 
carries a cane of any sort. You are very amenable 
to suggestion, and I for one, can’t feel that your evi¬ 
dence is to be implicitly depended on.” 

Frazer looked more chagrined than the witness 
herself. He had known that the Busybody was in¬ 
clined to exaggerate, but he hadn’t realized how easy 
it was to lead an inaccurate witness into imaginary 
statements. 

Miss Busby was all unmoved at the trap she had 
fallen into. 

“ I don’t see as it matters,” she said; “ I didn’t 
notice which hand he used, and if he’d carried a 
puppy under his arm, ’stid of a cane, I dunno as it 
would affect the matter. But I’ve got more important 
matters to tell of than Bark Hazelton’s walking stick 1 
I saw the murderer come round late last night.” 

“ Tell us, then,” commanded Fraser, “ but be 
careful to tell only the truth—only what you know.” 

Good natured Busybody was not at all offended 
by this adjuration. She had had the village folk 
for an audience too long and too continuously not 
to feel sure that she was going to startle them with 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


85 


her story, and she was herself highly wrought up with 
the mystex’y and excitement of it all. 

“ Well it was late last night, and it was a beauti- 
full moonlight night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I was 
looking out my front window. From there I can see 
all the back part of the Woodbine cottage, and all 
of the side and back of Gray Porches, my house being 
sort of between ’em, but farther back from the road. 
There wasn’t a glimmer of light in either house. Nor 
I didn’t have any light turned on. I just sat there, 
taking in the moonlight, when I thought I saw a 
dark figger snoopin’ round the Lawrence house. It 
looked to be a tall man, wearin’ a soft slouchy sort 
of a hat, an’ a long, dark coat. He was movin’ slowly 
and he stepped about sort of uncertain like, ’s if he 
hadn’t made up his mind—” 

“ Never mind his mind,” Fraser snapped at her, 
“ tell of his bodily proceedings.” 

“ Well,” and Busybody rolled her eyes around 
at her listeners in quite evident delight at the way 
they hung on her words. The aristocratic boarders 
from Gray’s were obviously as curious as the simple 
villagers, and Stanhope’s blue eyes were fastened on 
the speaker’s face, while Fraser sat ready to check 
her up if she wandered from fact to fancy. 

“ Well,” she said, slowly, “ it was aggravatin’ 
you must admit, but everytime I’d be about to catch 
sight of his face, the moon would get under a cloud.” 


86 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ It clouded over entirely about two o’clock,” 
Fraser put in. 

“ Yes, I know it. Well, this was long about 
quarter of two, I guess, and that man prowled— 
that’s the very word, prowled—along the side of the 
Woodbine, and looked in the windows—” 

“ Which windows? ” 

“ The library window first, then the little win¬ 
dow that is in the hall and then he went round to¬ 
ward the front of the house, and I couldn’t see him.” 

“Why didn’t you raise an alarm? ” 

“ Alarm! Why should I ? I didn’t know there 
was going to be a murder done, did I ? I thought it 
was queer that a man should be sneakin’ round here 
like that, ’cause we never have marauders. But it 
wasn’t up to me, a lone woman, to look after the 
property rights of a householder like Nevin 
Lawrence! ” 

“But if you thought a skulking intruder had 
entered a neighbor’s house—•” 

“ I dunno’s he entered the house. I saw him 
skulk but I didn’t see him intrude. I only tell what 
I saw—as you asked me to do—-but, in the light of 
later events, I think probably it was the murderer 
I saw.” 

“ Describe this man exactly. Was he young 
or old?” 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


87 


“ Now how could I tell that? He wore a long 
coat, like a motor coat or a rain coat, that flapped 
about his heels, like it was too long for him. He had 
his hands in his pockets, and his hat was pulled way 
down and his collar turned up, like he didn’t want to 
be reggonized.” 

Though fairly well educated, in moments of 
stress, Miss Busby was a bit careless in her pro¬ 
nunciation. 

“You noticed no other distinguishing charac¬ 
teristics? ” 

“ No—except ”—she hesitated, “ well, I can’t 
put it so’s you’ll see just what I mean, but his head 
looked queer.” 

“ Queer, how ? ” 

“ I don’t know, but queer. There was one time, 
when the moonlight struck him full—his back was 
toward me, then—and his head looked big some¬ 
how. And just then he took his two hands and 
pulled his hat down hard, not over his eyes, I don’t 
mean, but pulled it down all around—” 

“ As if trying to make himself less recognizable?” 

“ Yes, that’s it. And then he peered in the win¬ 
dows—” 

“ Perhaps he left fingerprints on the panes,” 
Fraser said, quickly, and at once sent a man out 
to see. 

“ Go on, Miss Busby.” 


88 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Well, that’s about all. I watched for a while, 
but I didn’t see anything more, nor hear anything.” 

“ You didn’t hear shots? ” 

“ Oh, my land, no! But the rooms—their rooms 
are in the front of the house, and I couldn’t hear 
that far.” 

“ And you didn’t see any lights ? ” 

“ No, but there, again, from my house I couldn’t 
see lights in those two front rooms. There wasn’t 
any light in Emma Lily’s room.” 

“ The man was tall, you say? ” 

“Yes, pretty tall, and sort of heavy without 
being fat. Leastways that’s the impression I got. Of 
course, I thought it all very queer, but of course, I 
didn’t suppose anything dreadful was going on.” 

“ Would you know that man if you saw him 
again? ” 

“ I can’t say. I might and I mightn’t. You see, 
that long, straight ulster and that pulled down hat, 
just made a sort of sillywet, as you might say, and 
that aggravatin’ moon always clouded over when I 
was gettin’ a good squint at him.” 

“ Did he have a long stride ? ” 

“ I couldn’t say. He sneaked, he didn’t stride 
ahead. He acted like he was scared to death.” 

“ Scared? ” 

“ Yes, scared of bein’ seen, most likely, and why 
not, if he was the murderer? ” 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


89 


Fraser’s emissaries returned to report that there 
were a goodly number of finger prints on the win¬ 
dow panes in question. They seemed to be of vari¬ 
ous people, some small and some large, and it was 
recommended that the panes be taken from the sashes 
and preserved as evidence. 

Fraser ordered this done, and then heard with 
surprise that clearly marked footprints had been 
found in the geranium bed beneath the li¬ 
brary window. 

“ That’s where he stood! ” cried Miss Busby, 
triumphantly. “ Now you can find him for sure! ” 

Stanhope was among the first to examine the foot¬ 
prints. They were indeed clear and plain, about a 
dozen of them. The soft earth of the flower-bed 
held them perfectly, and unless a shower came up 
they would last long enough for observation and 
investigation. 

Fraser, however, was an up-to-date sort in some 
respects, and he ordered plaster casts made of the 
plainest and deepest of the prints 

The shoes that made them, it would seem, would 
be readily identifiable. For it was quite apparent 
that they were not old or run over. The edges were 
clear and sharply defined, and there was the distinct 
impress of their rubber heels, which bore the design 
of a star in a circle. So well marked was this design 
that it was probable the shoes were nearly new. 


90 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


As a matter of general interest every man present 
turned one of his shoe soles upward to the gaze of 
the rest. 

“ Too small for me, that shoe/’ Ben Gray said, 
and truly. /‘Nor did I ever wear rubber heels in 
my life.” 

“ I always wear 'em,” declared Mr. Endicott, 
“but Eve never seen any with that design. Mine 
have an eagle on them.” 

“ I don’t like them,” observed Mrs. Trent, “ they 
are forever wearing off on the sides.” 

“ I like them on tennis shoes,” began Miss Lura 
Endicott, and Miss Hemingway interrupted with, 
“ but those are whole rubber soles, not just heels,” 
and then the crowd returned to the house and the 
inquiry was resumed. 

Fraser took up his questioning of Miss Busby 
where he had left it off. 

“ Those footprints indicate a tall man,” he said, 
“ they were made by shoes that are long but not 
very wide. Do you think that fits in with your im¬ 
pression of the man you saw in the moonlight? ” 

“ Perfectly,” cried Busybody Busby. “ He was 
tall and big, but not broad. And, anyway, whose 
else could they be? Everybody around here has 
compared his own shoes and they’re none of them 
the same.” 

“ Very obliging of the criminal to leave such 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


91 


clear, neat prints,” Dave Stanhope remarked to 
Fraser, in an undertone. 

“ They always slip up on some fool thing,” Fraser 
returned, looking almost annoyed at his new find. 

And then the two men’s eyes met in a look of 
mutual understanding. 

No words were needed to tell Stanhope that 
Fraser feared these were Barker Hazelton’s foot¬ 
prints. Barker was tall and big without being very 
broad. He would wear about that size shoe, and 
it would be an easy matter to check up on him. 

Stanhope went out by himself to look at the 
prints again. 

There were many curious observers, but a guard 
kept them all from stepping on the flower bed. 

Stanhope studied the prints from a little distance. 
He tried to get the details of the man’s approach to 
the house. 

It was only too easy to read the story. 

The prints were made by someone facing the 
house, obviously engaged in peering in at the win¬ 
dow. There were two or three prints superimposed, 
as if he had stood about for a minute or two, and 
then gone on. 

This window and the footprints were on the side 
of the house toward Gray Porches, so that if anybody 
had been up and looking out of a window over there, 
the man might have been seen. No such witness 


92 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


had been found, however, and probably Dave rea¬ 
soned, all the boarding house guests had been in bed 
and asleep at two o’clock. 

There were, he noticed, some six or eight bed¬ 
room windows, facing the cottage, but Miss Busby 
had seen no light in any of those, and he judged 
there had been none. 

The footprints all toed toward the cottage, but 
it could not well have been otherwise, for the flower¬ 
bed was a mere narrow strip and close against the 
house. It was the most natural coign of vantage 
for one to choose who wished to look in at the win¬ 
dow btfore going up onto the veranda. 

But evidently the intruder had immediately step¬ 
ped up on the porch—there were only three steps— 
and as he did so, he left a few grains of dirt from 
his shoes on the steps, but in no place on the steps 
or porch was there a definite footprint. 

Close examination, however, showed plainly 
enough the successive grains of the soil, and Stan¬ 
hope felt sure the man had gone at once into the house. 

Front doors were never locked in New Midian. 
Such is the utter trustfulness of those New England 
villages, that doors and windows are left unfastened 
all round the clock. 

The murderer then, could come and go, un¬ 
hindered, could commit his awful errand and go 
away unmolested and undiscovered. 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


93 


Of course, there were no returning footprints. 
The rugs or carpets inside had cleansed the shoes 
of even the few grains of soil that might have ad¬ 
hered, and his exit would naturally be unmarked. 

Nor did that matter. The whole point at issue, 
in Stanhope’s mind was whether those footprints 
in the flower-bed were made by Barker Hazelton’s 
shoes or not. And he almost feared to find out. 

It is unnecessary to detail all the wearisome but 
inevitable questions and their unsatisfactory answers 
that crowded the day. 

Fraser did his best, his assistants did all they 
could, but, unless some evidence should point to 
Barker Hazelton, the whole matter was shrouded 
in mystery. 

Lizzie Busby’s story was interesting, but it was 
quite on the cards that her imagination had colored 
the sights she thought she saw. 

On the other hand, if those prints corresponded 
with young Hazelton’s footwear, it was quite pos¬ 
sible her narration was entirely true. 

Frazer wanted above all things to send for one 
of the young man’s shoes at once. But he felt 
a certain hesitation about doing this too abruptly. 
Barker Hazelton’s temper was town talk, his father 
was a man noted for his powers of righteous indigna¬ 
tion, and Fraser argued that his friend Dave Stan¬ 
hope would shortly be going back to Hazel Hill and 


94 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


could find out about the shoes without un¬ 
due publicity. 

So he went on with his grilling and gruelling and 
found out some unimportant truths and some matters 
that were most likely untrue. 

But try as he might, he could find no record of 
any previous dwelling place of Mr. Lawrence or 
Mrs. Sayre. He directed all his energies to this 
matter. He had the desks of both searched, he ques¬ 
tioned the neighbors and the village people, but none 
had ever heard a word from either of them as to 
their home or homes before they came to New 
Midian. 

Of course these things must eventually be traced. 
The agent through whom they first found the house 
could tell what references they gave and all that— 
and probably it would make little difference anyway. 

But it seemed queer that no one had ever entered 
into discussion with them about their earlier life. 

Emma Lily was recalled and questioned as to this. 

No, she had never heard Mr. Lawrence or Mrs. 
Sayre discuss such matters with their callers or 
visitors. 

No, she had never known them to have company 
from out of town, either to call or to visit. 

No, she didn’t think this was strange. She knew 
they came from Chicago, she knew that Mr. Law- 


BUSYBODY’S STORY 


95 


rence’s wife and Mrs. Sayre’s husband were dead, 
and she knew that if there was anything unpleasant 
or sad in their past life, at least there was nothing 
wrong. That she would maintain to her dying day. 

“ But do you not think it strange that Mr. Law¬ 
rence died without a struggle and Mrs. Sayre put up 
such a desperate fight? ” 

Emma Lily looked at him with a pitying stare. 

“ You poor fish,” she said, being outspoken when 
deeply moved, “can’t you see just how it was? I 
say, can’t you see it? ” Her voice rose almost to a 
scream. “ The awful man found Mr. Lawrence 
asleep and killed him, coward!—as he slept. The shot 
naturally awakened Mrs. Sayre. She hopped up, and 
ran to see what had happened. Then that beast met 
her, just at her own door, and of course, she fought 
for her life—I say, of course she fought for her life! 
Who wouldn’t ? And she was a brave woman; I’ve 
no doubt she put up a big fight. But of course, she 
was no match for a great, strong man! He threw her 
to the floor, and there she lay—-when I found her— 
reaching out her poor dead arms for—” 

Emma Lily stopped suddenly, as if she had al¬ 
most made a misstep. 

“ For what? ” 

“ How do I know ? I only mean she looked like 
she was reaching out for something.” 


96 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ But you meant to say something definite—did 
you mean that the murderer may have had the pearl 
pin that is missing? ” 

“ Yes, that’s what I meant,” and the woman gave 
a quick sigh of relief. “ I say, that’s just what 
I meant.” 

“ But she didn’t mean that,” Dave Stanhope said 
to himself. 


CHAPTER VI 

BARKER HAZELTON 

“ You lied, Busybody Busby, I say, you lied! 
Emma Lily’s black eyes snapped and her thin, wiry 
arms shot around nervously in vague emphasis of her 
speech. “ I never saw your like! You’d rather lie 
than tell the truth, I do verily believe! ” 

“ Hush your noise, Emma Lily, you lied your¬ 
self. What about that pearl pin—aha, I guess you 
could tell where that is! ” 

The two were on Miss Busby’s porch, wrangling 
as usual, enjoying it as always. Both were nervously 
exhilarated and having been dismissed from the 
coroner’s august presence, they were talking together 
over the awful happenings at Woodbine. 

“ Now what do you mean by that? ” and Emma 
Lily’s sharp little face puckered up into a menacing 
frown. “ I say, what do you mean by that ? ” 
Busybody Busby looked at her meaningly. 

“ Oh, I’m not so blind as those blundering men 
who are trying to find out things inside there! I 
knew the minute you stammered and stuttered about 
that poor lady reaching out for something that it 
was the pearl pin. / knew it.” 

“ Well—I didn’t deny it, did I? ” 

“ No, but they never suspicioned, as I did, that 

97 


7 


98 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


the pearl pin was there—on the floor—and you took 
it—you took it, Emma Lily Stagg! You can’t deny 
that, either! ” 

“ Busy Lizzie Busby, you make me tired! Imagine 
me stealing a pearl pin! Where would I hide it, pray ? 
I haven’t been away from the house—wouldn’t they 
search my room? Wouldn’t it be found on me? I 
say wouldn’t it be found on me? And, look here, 
do you suppose for one single little teenty-taunty 
minute, that I’d steal from a dead person? Huh, 
I guess you judge other people by yourself! I say, 
I guess you do! ” 

“ Then what was you a-reaching out for?” 

“ Don’t you wish you knew? ” and Emma Lily’s 
thin lips pursed themselves to a teasing grimace. 
“ And I’d thank you, Miss Busybody, not to ask me 
no more questions about my employers. Lovely 
people they was, and I’ll do all I can for ’em now 
they’re gone—I say—•” 

“ Do all you can for ’em,” jeered Miss Busby. 
“ Sure enough you will! Ain’t you gettin’ a pot o’ 
money, and a pearl pin, to say nothin’ of pickins here 
and there? Oh, you needn’t tell me, I know the 
pickins a quiet woman can get here and there after 
the lady of the house is gone forever! Many’s the 
nice bit of clothing and little belongings you can 
absquatulate, Emma Lily—why, I make me no doubt 
your trunk’s full of ’em already! But you don’t 


BARKER HAZELTON 


99 


know nice things when you see ’em! Why didn’t 
you take that little figger, ’stid o’ smashin’ it? You 
didn’t know its value, that’s why! ” 

“ Neither did you, till you heard somebody say 
so! But I didn’t break that little thing. Why, Mr. 
Lawrence set great store by that. I was always 
mighty careful not to touch it. Mrs. Sayre, she al¬ 
ways told me to let it alone, she’d dust it herself.” 

“ She wasn’t afraid of a bit of housework, was 
she, Emma Lily? ” 

“ Not fine, pretty work, like dustin’ around in 
the bedrooms and livin’ room. But o’ course, she 
never bothered my kitchen.” The sharp little face 
nodded with true New England pride. “ Land sake, 
here comes Mrs. Gray, and that new boarder with 
her.” 

The inquest had been adjourned, for the next 
move must include the presence of Barker Hazelton, 
Fraser had decided. It was late afternoon, and as 
the crowds slowly, and rather unwillingly dispersed 
from the cottage, Sarah Gray and Mrs. Trent, 
sauntered across the grass toward the Busby house. 

“ I want to speak to you, Emma Lily,” began the 
mistress of Gray Porches, in her straightforward 
way, “ you’re out of a place now—” 

“ Yes’m, and they ain’t no one I’d ruther work for 
than you, Mrs. Gray. I say, they ain’t no one—but, 


100 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


somehow, I can’t seemin’ly put my mind on such 
things just now—” 

“ Certn’ly not! ” broke in Miss Busby, and Emma 
Lily glared at her, for she understood the hidden 
hint as to “ pickins.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” said Mrs. Gray. “ And I 
don’t mean to hurry you, but when you feel to do 
so, Emma Lily, you come see me about it, will you? ” 

At the nodded assent, the boarding house land¬ 
lady hurried off toward home, but Mrs. Trent 
lingered a moment, looking interestedly at the two 
typical village women before her. 

“Tell me a little about the people here,” she 
said, in a neighborly way. “ I only came up from 
New York yesterday, and it’s startling to be plunged 
right into the heart of a tragedy like this! ” 

“ It must be awful, ma’am,” conceded Emma Lily, 
but Miss Busby took up the conversation. There 
was little feeling of caste in New Midian, and Lizzie 
Busby was quite willing to hobnob with the Law¬ 
rence servant, but when it came to talking to the 
city boarders, Emma Lily must be put in her place. 

“ Yes > Mr s- Trent,” the Busybody said, briskly, 

“ I know just how you feel, I do. Here, you come 
up to a peaceful country village for a summer so¬ 
journ, and right under your very nose comes this 
awful thing! It ain’t usual, such things ain’t. Why, 
we never had so much as a robbery before. And 


BARKER HAZELTON 


101 


now a murder—a double murder—well, it’s beyond 
all!” 

“ You just express it, Miss Busby,” Mrs. Trent 
agreed, “ it is certainly beyond all. Had these people 
any enemies? ” 

“ Not one! Everybody in town loved ’em both.” 

And then the village Busybody gave a full 
account of all that was known of the victims of the 
tragic and mysterious fate. 

“ What about that man you saw prowling round?” 
Mrs. Trent asked. “ I’m no detective, but it does 
seem to me he ought to be looked up.” 

“ Yes,” nodded Miss Busby, “ but, if you ask 
me, I think they won’t do anything about him till 
they check up on Bark Hazelton.” 

“ A young man, is he? ” Mrs. Trent inquired. 

“Yes, one of our best summer people. Lives 
up on the hill yonder, and a first-rate young fellow, 
except for a blazing temper.” 

“ I suppose they’ll suspect him on account of that 
temper,” Mrs. Trent observed. “ People jump at 
conclusions so. Now, I should look up the queer 
man. You said he looked queer, didn’t you? ” 

“ Yes,” Miss Busby assented. “ But I don’t 
know why he looked queer, I can’t make it out to my¬ 
self. He seemed—he seemed so—so—” 

“Brutish?” suggested Mrs. Trent. 


102 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Oh, no, rather the other way. Sort of em¬ 
barrassed—” 

Mrs. Trent smiled involuntarily. 

“If he looked embarrassed,” she said, “ I don’t 
wonder you called him queer. Well, I must go on 
home. It’s lovely at Gray Porches, I’m booked for 
two weeks, but I’m not sure I want to stay after 
this—” 

“ Oh, do stay,” said Lizzie Busby, cordially. 
“ You’ll come to love the place, and after the—the 
funeral and all, you needn’t be mixed up in this thing 
at all. They’ll never find the murderer. If it was 
that queer man, he’s miles away by this time, and— 
who else could it have been? ” 

“Young Hazelton?” suggested Mrs. Trent, in¬ 
quiringly. 

“ No! never Bark Hazelton. But he’ll prove his 
alibi, I’m sure. I know Bark, he’s fiery and all, but 
he’d never kill anybody, indeed he wouldn’t.” 

111 agree to that! ” broke in a man’s voice, and 
Dave Stanhope appeared just as Mrs. Trent was leav¬ 
ing. She paused as Miss Busby murmured a word 
of introduction. 

“ I remember you, Mr. Stanhope,” the lady said. 

“ You were on my train from New York, yesterday.” 

“ Yes, I was, and I want to confess, I picked up 
a magazine you left behind you. A Carnival. Or 
wasn’t it yours? ” 


BARKER HAZELTON 


103 


“ If it was left behind, you surely had a right 
to it,” she smiled. “ But it wasn’t mine. Perhaps 
it belonged to Miss Hemingway.” 

“ Well, I took it, and it contained a most interest¬ 
ing story by poor Nevin Lawrence. Have you 
read it? ” 

“ No, but I will. One feels a new interest in 
his writings now. What’s your opinion, Mr. Stan¬ 
hope, as to the—the mystery? ” 

“ How women steer clear of the word murder,” 
thought Stanhope to himself, but he said, “ I haven’t 
a real opinion, as yet. I’m on my way to the station 
to meet my friend Hazelton, he may know some¬ 
thing evidential.” 

Stanhope spoke with great dignity, for he wanted 
no comment on Barker from these women. He had 
come over to see Emma Lily about some household 
matters pertaining to Woodbine cottage, now in the 
hands of the police, and he was impatient of any 
interruption. 

So, making known his errand, he bowed courte¬ 
ously to the other two and carried Emma Lily off 
with him. 

When Barker Hazelton swung himself off the 
train, he was met by Fraser and Lewis as well as 
by Dave Stanhope. 

He looked inquiringly at the other two as he 
smiled at Stanhope. 


104 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ What’s it all about? ” he said, as they all got 
into the Hazelton car. 

It had been agreed upon that Barker should not 
be questioned until he was at home and in the pres¬ 
ence of his father. But it was expected that he would 
have heard of the tragedy. 

“ Haven’t you heard of the murder? ” Fraser 
asked him, bluntly. 

“ No, what murder? ” 

The others watched him closely. Both Fraser 
and Lewis felt sure he was bluffing, but Stanhope, 
naturally prejudiced in Barker’s favor, thought his 
surprise was sincere. 

The main details were told to him, he was advised 
to say little, and in a bewildered state of mind Barker 
Hazelton entered his own home. 

A few minutes later, in his father’s presence, he 
was asked questions that startled him. It began to 
dawn upon him that he was looked upon as a possible 
suspect in this terrible crime. 

What! ” he fairly yelled; “ do you mean to 
say that I am implicated in this thing? Why, I’ll 
kick you out of this house! I’ll—” 

“ Hush, Barker,” said his father, “ such talk won’t 
get you anywhere. Now, answer these questions 
quietly—” 

“ Quietly? Would you be quiet if any one ac¬ 
cused you—■” 


BARKER HAZELTON 


105 


“ But, Mr. Hazelton,” Fraser broke in, “ try to 
realize that your blustering carries no weight with 
us. Indeed, it rather militates against you.” 

“ Behave yourself, Bark,” Stanhope said to him, 
in a friendly way. “ Take my advice, boy, and 
answer the questions in a few words and with¬ 
out comment.” 

Barker looked at him and his glance was a queer 
mixture of scorn and conciliation. 

“ I’ll answer what I choose and as I choose,” he 
said, and a look of sullenness spread over his face. 

He was a splendid specimen of humanity, ath¬ 
letic of build and most comely of face. His head was 
flung back with an air of defiance but in his gray eyes 
there lurked a hint of unrest, of uncertainty, and his 
firm, strong mouth quivered as he looked at his father. 

Amos Hazelton had said almost nothing, but his 
eyes, as they rested on his son were troubled. He 
had watched Barker closely, hoping to read his inner¬ 
most thoughts, but he was not satisfied with what 
he read. He looked at the twitching fingers, the 
restlessly moving feet, the nervous movements of the 
body, and he felt convinced that whatever might be 
the awful truth yet to be discovered, Barker knew 
at least something of it, and something that he did 
not propose to reveal. 

“ What about it, dad?” the son said, at last. 


106 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


noticing his father’s scrutiny. "‘Are you, too, con¬ 
demning me unheard? ” 

Amos Hazelton winced. Had he done that? he 
asked himself. 

“ No, Barker,” he said, gravely. “ But I want 
you to conduct yourself like a man—not like an un¬ 
trained cub—” 

It was an unfortunate expression. 

Barker’s eyes smouldered, and then blazed into 
lightning flashes, as he returned : 

“ Thank you. I will. I am a man, though my 
father treats me like a boy. I am twenty-six years 
old—old enough to keep my own counsel and follow 
my own way, without advice from anybody. Go 
on, Mr. Fraser, what do you want to know? ” 

“ You were at Mr. Lawrence’s house last night? ” 
“ Don’t be idiotic! You know I was! Go on.” 
Barker’s face was stern now. He was still deeply 
enraged, that was apparent, but he had ceased his 
nervous movements, and sat quietly alert, like a wild 
beast waiting to spring. 

Fraser’s manner instinctively changed. 
tl Will you tell us of your interview ? ” 

“ Certainly I will. But I cannot speak ill of the 
dead—otherwise I should tell you that I was dis¬ 
pleased with the way Mr. Lawrence treated me—” 

“ Ah, you were displeased at his treatment, 
were you ? ” 


BARKER HAZELTON 


107 


“ I was. Very much so.” Barker folded his 
arms and awaited the next query. 

But Lewis, the detective, was not at all satisfied 
with Fraser’s mildness and he broke in with: 

“And so you quarreled with him?” 

“ I did.” Barker replied. 

“ And you left him in anger? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ And you returned home, and later at night you 
went back to his house—to Mr. Lawrence’s house, 
and you shot him, and because his sister discovered 
you, you shot her too. Don’t dare deny it! ” 

Lewis leaned forward, and gazed into Barker’s 
face. He felt sure this was the way to treat this un¬ 
licked cub, this boy, whom even his father doubted. 

For there was a look on Amos Hazelton’s face 
that betokened a fear for his son. 

A splendid man was the elder Hazelton. A fine 
upright character, and, moreover, of a frank, open 
countenance. Not his a suave, diplomatic air, or an 
inscrutable expression. His feelings always showed 
themselves, and just now he who ran might read that 
he distrusted his son’s veracity, • doubted his son’s 
integrity, perhaps even suspected his son’s guilt. 

They were totally unlike, this father and son, 
and Stanhope, loving them both, trembled as he feared 
the effect to this lack of harmony between them. 


108 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


I 


“ I don’t deny it,” Barker returned, quietly, but 
his face was white and his lip quivered. “ I don’t 
deny it, because I scorn to deny it! You dare accuse 
me of this thing! Me!” He rose, and towered 
above his accuser. “ You must be out of your mind! 
But I refuse to> speak to you. I will get counsel— 
that is the proper thing, isn’t it, Dave? ” he almost 
smiled as he turned to Stanhope. 

“ Yes, but I’ll look after that, Bark. You leave 
it to me.” 

Stanhope was bewildered by the boy’s attitude. 
He had expected vehement denials, loud protestations, 
and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or further 
alarmed at this sudden acceptance of the situation. 

“ Never mind the theatricals, Mr. Hazelton,” 
Lewis said, “ as I told you, they don’t help you any. 
The guiltiest person on earth would adopt that same 
scornful attitude. But it doesn’t carry any weight 
with us. We’re used to it.” 

“ Give me the floor, Lewis,” Fraser asked; “ let 
me ask a few questions, please. Now, Mr. Hazelton, 
did you leave Mr. Lawrence angry at you, or you 
at him ? ” 

“ Both,” Barker returned, succinctly. 

“ And came straight home ? ” 

“ By no means. I went to make a call.” 

“ On whom ? ” 


BARKER HAZELTON 


109 


There was a moment’s hesitation, and then, “ on 
Miss Gladys Lee.” 

“ In the village? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you staid there, how long? ” 

“ Until about eleven, I should say. I can’t tell 
you more exactly.” 

“ That will do. And from Miss Lee’s house you 
came straight home ? ” 

“ Straight.” 

“ Didn’t go back to Mr. Lawrence’s? ” 

“ I did not.” 

Again Lewis interrupted. He had a flair for the 
psychological moment, and whether Fraser approved 
or not, he was determined to speak. 

“ But you started out again, later ” Lewis cried, 
“ about two o’clock you were back at Mr. Lawrence’s 
house, standing about, outside his library window! ” 

“ I was not.” 

“ You were. Your footprints are there.” This 
was a wild shot on Lewis’ part, but he chanced it. 
“ Let me see the soles of your shoes.” 

Slowly Barker Hazelton raised his right foot 
and held it so that Lewis could see the sole. The 
foot was not a small one, and it was not without 
a touch of insolence that its owner held it within a 
few inches of Lewis’ face. More than one observer 




110 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


of the scene felt that it would take but a word to send 
that foot smashing into that inquisitive face. 

But nothing untoward happened. 

“ You sometimes wear rubber heels ?” Lewis 
asked, for to his intense disappointment he saw none. 

“ Never, except on tennis or other rubber-soled 
shoes. Why?” 

Lewis was baffled and chagrined. 

Fraser, on the other hand, didn’t feel at all cer¬ 
tain that this was an alibi for Barker Hazelton. He 
was suspicious of sudden frankness, and he reasoned 
that if young Hazelton did this thing, he was quite 
capable of having used disguising shoes, and of tak¬ 
ing them to New York that day for disposal. With 
this in mind, he made no request to search Barker’s 
stock of footwear. 

“Have you a long rain coat?” asked Fraser 
ruminatively. 

“ No, I detest raincoats,” Barker returned. 

“Well, a long motor coat—or overcoat?” 

“ Why, I’ve several topcoats—fairly, but not es¬ 
pecially long. But, look them over. My entire ward¬ 
robe is at your disposal.” 

I think Mr. Hazelton should be told of the man 
Miss Busby described,” Stanhope remarked. “ He 
may be able to identify him.” 

“ Yes, by looking in the mirror! ” said Lewis, 
bluntly. “ Why, a neighbor, Miss Busby, says she 


BARKER HAZELTON 


111 


saw a man prowling round about two o’clock. He 
wore a long coat and a slouch hat and we have his 
footprints.” 

“ Well, the hat and coat aren’t mine—are the foot¬ 
prints ? ” Barker had returned to his insolent manner. 

“We don’t know yet,” put in Fraser. “ I see by 
Mr. Lewis’ face that he thinks they are not. But 
they are about your size.” 

“ Oh, come now, that’s not much to go on. 
More’n half the men in the world probably have feet 
my size. Now, if you have nothing more definite 
than that on which to hang my accusation, I propose 
we call this interview off. I shan’t run away. You 
can find me here whenever you want me to try 
on shoes.” 

“ Don’t be flippant, Barker,” said his father. He 
had scarce spoken before. “ Please take this mat¬ 
ter seriously.” 

Barker stared at him. 

“ Yes,” he responded, slowly; “ I should say I am 
the one to take it seriously, when my own father 
is against me. But, I repeat, unless you men have 
something further to accuse, I don’t see the use of 
prolonging this conversation.” 

“ It isn’t for us to accuse, it’s for you to excuse,” 
said Fraser, with the air of getting off a good thing. 
“ What we ask you for is your alibi. Have you 
got one ? ” 

“ Innocent men don’t have to have alibis,” re- 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


112 

turned their unsatisfactory suspect. “ I state I 
returned home last night, soon after eleven o’clock. 
As you say this crime took place about two, I can’t 
see how or why you connect me with it.” 

“ Have you any one to corroborate your 
statement? ” 

“Not unless someone here at home saw or heard 
me come in last night.” 

Fraser looked questioningly at the elder Hazelton. 

“ I did,” he said slowly. “ I heard my son come 
in with his latchkey, some time after eleven.” 

“How long after?” Fraser looked suspicious. 

“ Not more than twenty or twenty-five minutes. 
I was in bed myself, but I was not asleep. But one 
always knows about what time it is.” 

“ Then,” and Fraser seemed to be suddenly de¬ 
termined, “ I think we will look a little further for 
the man with the rubber heels, before we ask more 
questions of Mr. Barker Hazelton. But we shall 
expect to find him here when we want him.” 

“ Always at your service,” said Barker, with a 
courtly bow that made Fraser feel a little foolish. 

But the next moment came a telephone call for 
Lewis, and they all waited as he left the room to 
answer it. 

And when he returned, his face bore a mingled 
look of satisfaction and bewilderment. 

“What do you think?” he cried, explosively. 


BARKER HAZELTON 


113 


“ Those footprints are Mr. Lawrence’s own! Our 
man down there has overhauled Mr. Lawrence’s shoe 
closet, and nearly all his shoes have that same stamped 
rubber heel, and are the same size, and exactly fit the 
footprints! So we need look no further for our 
‘ rubber heeled man ’ and I suggest that we ask Mr. 
Hazelton to go with us to the scene of the crime. 
One word more,” and he turned to Amos Hazelton. 
“ You heard your son come in last night. Did you 
hear him go out again later? ” 

There was a tense silence. Amos Hazelton’s eyes 
were cast down. After a moment he raised them, 
and looked Lewis straight in the face. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I did.” 

“ At what time ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Soon after midnight, I think.” 

“ That will do.” 


8 


CHAPTER VII 

THE WHITE-FACED MAN 

“ There seems to be a deadlock,” Barker Hazel- 
ton said. 

He spoke in calm, even tones, and looked straight 
at his father, with an expressionless face. 

“ There does,” the elder Hazelton returned. “ I 
advise you, Barker, to stick to the truth. And, I 
say to you Mr. Fraser, that I stand back of my son, 
whatever happens. If you suspect him in any way, 
come to me with your complaints. If you have or 
think you have any evidence against him tell me of 
it. Please do nothing definite until you have in¬ 
formed me of your intentions. It may be that I 
have no right to ask this, but I do ask it, and I trust 
my wishes may be respected.” 

It was a strange speech. And the attitude be¬ 
tween father and son was a strange one. They looked 
at each other, yet it was impossible to read from 
their faces what their thoughts were. 

Fraser concluded that the two were not on good 
terms with each other, but Lewis felt sure that they 
shared a secret and intended to conceal it. 

Stanhope, knowing the pair better, and knowing 
that though they were unlike and even uncongenial, 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


115 


they were staunchly loyal-hearted, desired only that 
the visitors should get away and give him an oppor¬ 
tunity to talk to his friends alone. 

“ All right, Mr. Hazelton,” Fraser answered him. 
“ Now, I’ll be frank with you. As it turns out that 
the footprints in the flower-bed are Mr. Lawrence’s 
own, we must conclude that he merely stepped out 
there to look after the plants or some such matter. 
So far as I can see there’s no way to connect up those 
footprints with anybody else. I can’t dope out any¬ 
body’s stealing a pair of Nevin Lawrence’s shoes in 
order to make those footprints.” 

“ I can,” interrupted Lewis. “ I think it was a 
clever dodge of the murderer’s.” 

“ Oh, you do! ” and Barker Hazelton turned on 
him; “ well, go on—how did he work his clever 
dodge? ” 

“ Why, he found a chance to get a pair of Mr. 
Lawrence’s shoes, on the sly—” 

“Not an easy thing to do, I should say—but 
go on.” 

“ And then, he put them on and went there, late 
at night. He peered in at the window—there are 
finger marks to show that—and then he entered 
the house.” 

“ The shoes being merely to disguise his own 
footprints ? ” Barker seemed interested. 

“ Yes, exactly. And a clever dodge, I call it.” 


116 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Do you know, it seems idiotic to me,” Barker 
said; “ why not any shoes not his own? ” 

“ Because they could be traced—oh, it was the 
work of a deep, calculating mind.” 

“ It sure was,” Barker agreed. “ But I can’t 
think how he managed to abstract the shoes.” 

Lewis looked at him sharply. He was getting 
more and more sure that Barker had done this very 
thing, and he was glad to pursue the subject. 

“ Easy enough,” he returned. “ Say they were 
both members of the Country Club. Say that they 
both kept extra shoes and other apparel in their lock¬ 
ers, even that Mr. Lawrence left a pair of his shoes 
there while he wore his tennis shoes, intending to 
change before he went home. And when he went to 
change, his shoes were gone.” 

“ Ingenious,” and Barker nodded his head, with 
an ironical grin. “ But if I’d found a pair of nearly 
new shoes missing, I’d raise a howl.” 

“Of course you would,” said Lewis, blandly, 
“ but Mr. Lawrence was a quiet man. And, too, 
probably he did raise a howl, among the attendants, 
but what good did it do? The shoes were gone.” 

Stanhope pondered. The idea of stealing the 
shoes from the club dressing room was fantastic, yet 
what other suggestion could he make? No burglar 
would have secured the shoes before going to commit 
his depredations; no casual friend or acquaintance 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


117 


could have abstracted them from Lawrence’s own bed¬ 
room. Yet it was too absurd to think of the club 
proposition. 

“ No,” he said, decidedly, “ your theory can’t 
be right Mr. Lewis. If those footprints were unques¬ 
tionably made by Mr. Lawrence’s shoes, then those 
shoes were on Mr. Lawrence’s feet. In that case the 
shoes can be found.” 

“ Let us go down to the Lawrence house, then, 
and see if they have been,” and Fraser rose with an 
air of finality. “ I’ll ask you to go along, Mr. Hazel- 
ton,” he turned to Barker. “ And, you, sir, if you 
wish,” he added to the father. 

“ No,” said Amos Hazelton, “ I don’t want to 
go, but I’ll ask my friend Mr. Stanhope to represent 
me. Good-by, Barker,” he held out his hand to 
his son, and with a firm hand clasp, the two parted. 

Detective Lewis watched them keenly, for he 
hoped to gain from their manner an insight into their 
mutual secret, if they had one. 

He had a queer notion that Amos Hazelton’s 
frankness in admitting Barker’s later departure 
from the house was part of their line of defence, 
though he couldn’t yet quite see through it. 

Fraser’s car took them straight down to the 
Woodbine cottage. It was dusk now, and as they 
neared the house, they saw a man coming 
away from it. 


118 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


He walked with a furtive air, and as if undecided 
which way to go. 

Suddenly Stanhope recognized him for the 
“ white-faced man.” 

“ That’s the chap,” he exclaimed, “ who called to 
see if he recognized the bodies. I wonder who 
he is.” 

“ Him ?” Fraser spoke scornfuly. “ I know him. 
He’s from over my way—Beechville way.” 

" Native? ” 

Oh, no, summer boarder. Been up here a few 
weeks, I think. He’s a sort of harmless nonentity. 
I know little of him.” 

“ He came up from New York last night on the 
same train I did,” went on Stanhope. “ Then this 
morning he was interested in the dead people, and 
now he’s prowling round here again.” 

“ And quite in keeping with what I know of him.” 
Fraser returned, carelessly. “ He spends most of 
his time roaming round the country. Boards at the 
Inn in Beechville. He’s not the murderer, if that’s 
what’s on your mind, Mr. Stanhope.” 

“ It isn’t,” Barker cried out, suddenly. “ What’s 
on Mr. Stanhope’s mind is a fear that I’m the mur¬ 
derer. Now, I propose to prove to him that I’m not.” 

With almost a belligerent air the young man 
got out of the car and strode into the cottage. 

The policeman on guard admitted them, and 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


119 


Lewis at once beckoned them all upstairs. He had 
strong faith in the sudden confrontation of Barker 
with the scene of the crime, and expected results. 

Nor was he disappointed. 

Barker Hazelton stared about with a terrified air. 

“ My God!” he exclaimed, “is this where it 
happened? ” 

“You ought to know! ” said Lewis, brutally, 
pushing him into Mrs. Sayre’s room. 

The bodies had been taken away to the village 
undertaker’s rooms, and though untouched in the 
main, the rooms had been tidied and the beds properly 
made up. 

Yet over all seemed to hang a sinister haze, a 
cloud of mystery which could not be dispersed. Even 
the dainty yellow curtains fluttering in the soft even¬ 
ing breeze, had a ghostly, haunting effect, and the 
white bed seemed mutely calling for its martyred 
occupant. 

Barker Hazelton shuddered through all his strong 
frame. His lip quivered and he flung his hands up 
to his eyes as if to shut out some dreadful memory. 

Lewis gave a quick nod of satisfaction. All was 
going as he had expected. Another moment would 
doubtless bring a confession. 

Full of his project he seized Barker’s arm and 
rushed him on into Lawrence’s room. 


120 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ And here’s where you killed the other one! ” 
he cried, in a tense, triumphant voice. 

And then Barker turned on him. 

“ You hound! ” he cried, “you let me alone! I 
am stunned with grief and horror at this thing, and 
then you come along with your leering, ghoulish face, 
trying to trap me! Get away from me, I tell you, 
before I make you do so! ” 

“ Don’t bluster,” Lewis said, calmly standing his 
ground. “ I ought to tell you that anything you say 
may be used against you—” 

“ Shut up! ” Barker shouted; “ another word of 
that sort and I’ll pitch you out of that window!— 
Mr. Fraser,” he turned to the coroner, “ who broke 
that statuette? ” 

He pointed to the bits of the Tanagra figurine, 
which, in a box, was still on the bedroom table. 

“We don’t know,” Fraser watched him intently. 

“ Find that out, and you’ve got your murderer.” 
Barker said quietly. 

“ Bluff, sheer bluff,” Lewis said, grinning openly. 
“ But you can’t put it over, Mr. Hazelton. Never 
mind the little image, where’s the revolver 
you used? ” 

But the manceuver of sudden questioning, so 
often useful, did not altogether work in this case. 

“Revolver?” Barker said, in a tone of casual 
inquiry, “now, really, my dear sir, since I didn’t 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


121 


do the shooting—at least, since I haven’t as yet con¬ 
fessed to it—you can’t expect me to tell you anything 
about the weapon.” 

Fraser saw that Lewis’ mode of attack would get 
small results, and he interrupted. 

“ I say, Mr. Hazelton, just why do you think the 
little statue is mixed up in this thing? ” 

“ I don’t think it, I know it,” the young man 
replied, and looked Fraser straight in the face. “ But 
you see, I hold an anomalous position. I’d like to 
help you solve this mystery, I vow I would, but how 
can I, when I’m suspected myself ? ” 

“Oh, not suspected, exactly,” Fraser said; pla- 
catingly; “we’re just feeling our way.” 

“Well, if your feelings lead you toward me, 
say so—” 

“ We have said so,” put in Lewis, dryly. 

“ You have,” Barker corrected, “ I’m not so sure 
Mr. Fraser has! ” 

“ Your whole attitude is proof to my eyes,” Lewis 
went on. “ Here you are shaking and shuddering, 
your mouth twitching and your hands tightly 
clenched—” 

It was all true. Had Barker Hazelton been the 
guiltiest criminal that ever was confronted with the 
scene of his crime, he could have acted no more horri¬ 
fied, even terrified, than he now did. 

His eyes rolled from one side of the room to the 


122 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


other, he turned his head quickly, now and then, as 
if at a sudden thought. He even scrutinized the fur¬ 
niture and carpet, for all the world as if fearful of 
having left some clue behind him that yet might 
prove his guilt. 

But Stanhope read all this nervous agitation dif¬ 
ferently from the other observers. He believed, or 
tried to believe, that Barker was merely stunned by 
the tragedy, the first to come into his hitherto happy, 
carefree life. 

At any rate, he was not at all ready to believe 
the worst, and he longed to get Barker home, where 
he could talk to him alone. 

So he suggested that as none of them had eaten 
an evening meal, the session be adjourned till the 
next day. 

“ I’ll be responsible for Mr. Hazelton’s appear¬ 
ance whenever you want him,” Stanhope said, and 
after some further hesitation, the investigators per¬ 
mitted Hazelton and Stanhope to depart. 

“ Hop into the car, Bark,” Stanhope said, and 
in Lewis’ car, which he offered them, the two men 
started for Hazel Hill. 

Barker was taciturn and Dave did not break 
the silence. 

As they neared the home of Gladys Lee, Hazel- 
ton told the chauffeur to stop there. 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


123 


Stanhope was about to remonstrate, then thought 
better of that and said nothing. 

As they stopped at the little house, Barker said 
to the chauffeur: “ wait a minute,” and then he went 
up the garden path. 

But in less than a minute he was back, and in 
the car again. 

“ She couldn’t see me,” he said, briefly, and lapsed 
again into silence. 

After dinner the two Hazeltons and their guest 
forgathered in the library, and Stanhope fervently 
hoped that they would “ get somewhere.” 

He was so anxious to' investigate the whole mat¬ 
ter; so anxious for frank and free statements from 
Barker, and so very anxious for help and sympathy 
from Amos, yet he feared that these two strange, al¬ 
most eccentric men would prove obstinate and diffi¬ 
cult to deal with. 

One trouble was, Stanhope himself didn’t know 
whether he felt entirely sure of Barker’s innocence, 
and he was almost certain that Amos did not. 

So the conference began rather inauspiciously. 
Each seemed to be on guard, each seemed unwilling 
to speak his mind. 

Finally Stanhope said: 

“ Look here, you two. I’m going to speak right 
out in meeting. A terrible thing has happened. Bar¬ 
ker is being questioned about it. Amos, you will be 


124 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


questioned further. Now, I am keen on detective 
work, I should be only too glad to take up this matter 
and thrash it out, but I won’t do that unless you both 
want me to, and I beg—I must insist that you answer 
me frankly and tell me the truth, and all the truth.” 

“Which of us do you want to speak first?” 
Barker inquired, not flippantly, but seriously, as if a 
lot depended on the answer. 

“ You, Amos,” and after an instant’s hesitation 
Stanhope turned to the elder man. 

“ Well, I will,” and Hazelton straightened up in 
his chair as if about to throw off a heavy burden. 

“I’ve been brooding over this thing while you 
two were down there. And I can’t see any way to look, 
except toward Barker. Now, wait a minute, this 
doesn’t mean that I’m condemning or suspecting my 
own son, but I want his word that he had nothing 
to do with the affair.” 

“ That isn’t telling your story, dad,” Barker said, 
and his fine face was frowning as he looked at 
his father. 

“ Very well, then, my story is this. I know you 
went down to the village last evening. I know you 
came back shortly after eleven. I know you went 
out again, and down toward the village. This was 
soon after midnight. You returned much later.” 

“At what hour?” asked Barker, in a smooth, 
even tone. 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


125 


“ I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me to look. 
I had no premonition of what to-day would bring 
forth.” 

“ But you said one always knows about what 
time it is.” 

“ Then, my impression would be that it was after 
two o’clock.” 

“ You had been awake all the time? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Trying to get to sleep? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Don’t you know that hours seem almost inter¬ 
minable under those conditions? It may have been 
much earlier.” 

“ It may have been.” 

Father and son looked at each other. 

“ Dad,” Barker said, “if you had looked at the 
time when I came in, you could establish my alibi.” 

“ I think I heard you say,” Amos Hazelton spoke 
coldly, “ that innocent men do not need alibis.” 

“ Is this an inquest? ” Stanhope broke in. “ Are 
you two coroner and witness? What do you mean 
by such talk? Such attitudes! Amos, wake up. 
You antagonize Barker when you act like that. You 
know him well enough—” 

“ I do indeed,” the father said, bitterly. “ I know 
his fiery temper, his stubborn, obstinate disposition, 
his touchy pride, his pig-headed determination—” 


126 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ All of which traits he inherits from you,” Stan¬ 
hope said, speaking sternly. “ e You two love each 
other, but these very attributes and instincts that you 
have in common prevent your true understanding 
of each other. 

“ Now, you are at a crisis. This is a dangerous, a 
terrible situation that confronts us. Irrespective of 
all else, unless you two work together, unless you are 
absolutely at one, it will mean certain disaster of one 
sort or another.” 

“ But I told those police people that I was back 
of Barker in any emergency,” said Amos, defencively. 

“ I know it,” Stanhope looked at him accusingly, 
“but how did you tell them? As if it were wrung 
from you! As if you were back of the boy only be¬ 
cause it was your paternal duty. Not because you 
believe in him, and trust him—” 

“ Because he doesn’t do that,” Barker broke in. 
“ He never believes me—he never trusts me—” 

“ Because time after time you have shattered my 
belief in you—you have betrayed my trust in you.” 

Barker’s eyes fell, and Amos bowed his head on 
his hand. 

“Well, well,” Stanhope said, “I know what a 
little rascal Bark was as a boy, and he hasn’t entirely 
outgrown it. But we must forget that in the present 
dilemma. I repeat, you two must start out afresh, 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


127 


must stand shoulder to shoulder, or I can’t pull you 
through.” 

“ Through what ? ” said Barker, suddenly. 

“ Through a possible accusation, arrest, trial,” 
said Stanhope, gravely. “ Now, wait a minute, be¬ 
fore you fly off the handle. As I see it, this is one of 
those mysterious crimes, with no definite way to look 
for the criminal. Wherefore, if they get what they 
think even a plausible, even a possible suspect, they 
will make it very hard for him. Just the fact that you 
quarreled with Lawrence, that you are the last one 
known to have seen him, that you came home and 
went back to the village again later, that you were 
away all day to-day—all these things, each unimpor¬ 
tant in itself, combine to make enough to warrant 
your arrest, if the authorities choose. It matters not 
how innocent you may be, if they fasten it on you, 
and can find no other suspect, I tell you it will go hard 
with you. I can hope to pull you through, but only 
if I have the help and sympathy of you both and you 
are in sympathy and harmony with each other. Please 
try to realize this, both of you. I’m not talking 
lightly—I see the seriousness of the danger.” 

“ I haven’t heard Barker’s story yet,” said Amos, 
after a pause. 

“ Here it is, then; ” and Barker began: “ I went 
to see Mr. Lawrence to have a final chat with 
him about that club business. As you both know, it 


128 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


isn’t only the prohibition question, but there are other 
basic principles in the club constitution that he wanted 
to change, and a lot of us younger fellows don’t. 
Anyway, I went to talk over all those things with 
him, and he—well, he wasn’t very nice. That is, he 
was nice enough, polite and all that, but he was like a 
rock. Nothing could alter or even alleviate his old- 
fashioned, old-fogy ideas and opinions. I coaxed, I 
plead, and finally, of course, I got mad, and we had 
a pretty high old quarrel.” 

“ Was Lawrence angry? ” 

“ In his way. He didn’t bluster as I did, but 
he had that quiet, maddening way of being so sure 
of himself and his platform and his constituents and 
his ultimate victory, that I—well I had already lost 
my temper and I guess I lost my head.” 

“ Did you strike him? ” asked his father. 

“ I did not, why should I do that? I’m not a 
silly baby. But I said things—and so did he—” 

“ Well,” said Stanhope, “ what was the out¬ 
come? ” 

“ Oh, practically nothing. A drawn game. We 
exhausted our words I guess—anyway, I was tired 
of it, and I just left—we didn’t even say good night.” 

“Where did you go?” 

“ Over to see Gladys.” This a little defiantly. 

“ At that hour? ” Amos raised his eyebrows. 

“ Oh, it wasn’t late. Only about ten or so.” 


THE WHITE-FACED MAN 


129 


“ And did she soothe your ruffled feathers? ” It 
was this little sacrastic touch of Amos’ that always 
irritated his son. 

“ Did she ? She did not! Gladys is no molly¬ 
coddle. She bawled me out roundly for being so 
foolish as to lose my temper while with Lawrence. 
Said I would have done much better for myself and 
my cause to have been diplomatic and argued the 
thing out quietly with him. Said she’d see him 
herself. 

Barker stopped short and flushed a dull red. 

“ Well, go on,” said his father, sharply. “ She 
said she’d see him for you, did she? Kind of her.” 

Stanhope sighed in despair. How could he ever 
harmonize these two discordant natures ? 

“ Look here, dad,” Barker spoke quietly now, 
“ it will be wiser and better for all concerned if you 
leave her name out of our conversation.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, do! ” cried Stanhope. “ Let 
that matter wait over till we are out of these other 
woods. You must! You two don’t realize—” 

“ You’ve said that before,” Barker said, moodily. 
“ To go on with my story. I quarreled with Gladys 
as I had with Lawrence. I left her in a huff, flung 
off without a good night, and came home and went 
to bed—that was soon after eleven. Then I couldn’t 
sleep, but I was more troubled about the girl than 
about the man I had quarreled with. 

9 


130 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ I tossed about for an hour and then I got up 
and dressed and went out to walk about. The night 
was pleasant—moonlight and all that, and I started 
down toward the village not knowing whether I’d 
go all the way or not. I did go all the way. I walked 
by Gladys’ house, thinking if there was a light in 
her window I’d throw a pebble at it and sing out a 
good night to her. But there wasn’t, so—I came 
home.” 

“ Directly? ” asked his father. 

“ Almost. I walked around past Lawrence’s, 
but I didn’t stop there.” 

“ You didn’t? ” Amos Hazelton looked into his 
son’s eyes, and Stanhope knew that this was the vital 
test—the crucial moment. 

And Barker Hazelton looked back into his father’s 
eyes and said: 

“ I can’t answer that—until I’ve spoken to—to 
somebody.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

RUBBER HEELS 

The next morning Stanhope and Barker Hazel- 
ton started for the village. 

Amos Hazelton stood on the porch as he said 
good-by to them. 

“ Barker,” he said, “ I leave this matter to you. 
It is your affair. You are my son, and you may call 
on me for anything you want, money, time, influence, 
sympathy—but you must stand or fall on your own 
recognizance. I neither believe nor disbelieve in 
your guilt or your innocence. You have been a dis¬ 
appointment to me in many ways but I love you and 
I am ready to fight for you if called upon to do so, 
To-day I shall go up to the White Mountains to see 
your mother and Nell. I don’t want them to come 
down here while this excitement is on. They could 
do no good, and it would upset them so terribly. At 
any rate, I’m going up there and see what your mother 
thinks best for her to do.” 

“ Good-by, dad,” and Barker held out his hand. 
“ Pm sorry I’m so unsatisfactory, but if—oh, well, 
never mind. Good-by.” 

Barker got into the car, Stanhope followed and 
they were off. 


131 


132 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ I wish you and your father hit it off better,” 
Stanhope said, as he lighted a cigar. “ You’re both 
such bricks, and yet—” 

“ It’s all on account of Gladys,” Barker said; “ if 
father only knew her, only knew what a dear little 
thing she is. But he won’t even meet her.” 

“ You’re serious this time, I suppose? ” 

“ You bet I am! And, I say, Dave, can I go to 
Gladys’ for a minute, before I show up at the Law¬ 
rence place ? ” 

“ I think not. I gave my word we’d be there at 
ten and its about that now.” 

“ All right,” but Barker’s face fell, and his ner¬ 
vous, fidgety manner returned. 

“ What’s the matter with you? ” Stanhope said, 
a little shortly. “ You act so brave and sane at home, 
and when you get down here you begin to tremble 
and your lip quivers like a baby’s! ” 

Hazelton didn’t resent this, but answered, “ I 
can’t help that physical exhibition of nervousness. 
It’s the curse of my life, Dave. I suppose I inherit 
it from mother—she’s just like that. And dad is so 
self controlled. Well, I’ll tell you one thing, the more 
I seem kerflummuxed, the cooler and more rational 
I am, really.” 

“ All right, old chap. Now, before we get there, 
who is it you must see before you can make a clean 


RUBBER HEELS 


133 


breast of your goings and comings night before last? 
Gladys? ” 

“ Yes.” And then with a sudden burst of con¬ 
fidence, “ you see, she said she was going round to 
Lawrence's after I left her.” 

“ At eleven o’clock at night! ” 

“ Yep. That’s what she said. I don’t think she 
meant to go—I don’t believe she did go, but I’ve got 
to see her before I say what I did.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Well, I should think you could see why. If 
she went there, late, and the detectives learn of it, 
first thing you know they’ll be bothering her to death 
with their fool questions, and I don’t want her mixed 
up in the thing at all.” 

“And you’ll perjure yourself before you’ll let 
her be bothered ? ” 

“ Sure, why not? ” 

“ Barker, haven’t you any regard for the truth? ” 

“You bet I have! Such a high regard that I 
hate to waste it on those fool policemen! ” 

And then they reached Woodbine cottage and 
were met at the door by “those fool policemen.” 

Also awaiting them was Miss Busby, quite evi¬ 
dently a star witness for the prosecution. 

“ Good morning, Bark,” she said, looking at him 
curiously. “ They’re going to stage a play with you 
and me as chief actors.” 


134 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ All right, Miss Lizzie, let’s get it over as soon 
as possible. What do I do? ” 

“ Get into this, please,” and Lewis proffered a 
long raincoat, and a soft slouch hat, which he had 
accumulated for the purpose. 

Barker donned these things without remonstrance 
and then awaited further orders. 

The orders being forthcoming he went outside, 
and stood on the flower-bed beneath the li¬ 
brary window. 

Miss Busby had scurried back to her home and 
sat in her window, the idea being to see if she could 
identify the figure of Barker Hazelton with the man 
she had seen in the night. 

There was also an interested audience in the win¬ 
dows and on the verandas of Gray Porches. 

Mrs. Endicott and Mrs. Trent, who were be¬ 
coming fast friends, watched absorbedly. 

“ Fine looking young chap,” Mrs. Trent observed, 
gazing at Barker’s stalwart figure. 

“Yes,” agreed the other, “ but a scalawag, if ever 
there was one. They say he’s incorrigible, his father 
can’t do anything with him—never could.” 

“High tempered, I’ve heard.” 

“ Frightfully so. Flies into a rage at the merest 
trifle. I’ll bet a cookie he’s mad now! ” 

And in truth, Barker was. He didn’t mind the 
performance he was engaged in, he was willing to 


RUBBER HEELS 


135 


give the detectives their way, but he did mind the 
group watching him, and he felt like a fool. 

Released at last, he waited for Lizzie Busby to 
come over from her house. He met her before the 
others were within earshot. Indeed, he had gone a 
few steps toward her to reach her first. 

Meeting her, he took her by the arm and walked 
by her side. 

“ Busybody/’ he said, in a low tone, “ you say 
anything you want to, but remember this; I heard 
something you said to Nevin Lawrence as I came up 
the steps that night. You know the windows were 
open, your voice was raised a little, and—well, I 
heard you—that’s all.” 

Miss Busby’s whole attitude changed. Her im¬ 
portant, superior air vanished and she looked 
scared, cowed. 

But they were in the cottage now and Lewis 
eagerly asked her if she thought she recognized the 
mysterious night prowler she had seen. 

“ No,” she said, slowly. “ No, that man I saw 
wasn’t Bark Hazelton.” 

“ How can you be so sure ? ” 

“The whole make-up was different. The man 
I saw was a heavier figger and a mite shorter. I 
can’t say by feet and inches, but I do know the 
other was a little shorter. Bark is a very tall man, 
and that other one was tall but not as tall. And he 


136 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


had a different set of his head on his shoulders. And 
his head was bigger.” 

“ You seem sure of that big head.” 

“ Yes, I am, that’s what made the man look queer. 
Bark doesn’t look queer—he’s, why, normal. The 
other fellow was—well queer.” 

“ That’s easy,” Lewis grunted. “ Young Hazel- 
ton tried to disguise himself. That would explain 
the stooped attitude and perhaps the big head. He 
may have worn a wig.” 

“ And I may have worn a hump on my back and 
asses’ ears!” cried Hazelton, exasperated beyond 
measure. “ But, I didn’t! See here, if you’ve accu¬ 
sations to make and evidence to prove them, go ahead, 
but don’t trump up fairy tales! Miss Busby didn’t 
recognize me as the ‘ queer man ’ so I think you’ll 
have to look further for him. But why wasn’t 
it Mr. Lawrence himself? You’ve proved his shoes, 
he was a tall man—fairly tall—and as to the 4 big 
head that was doubtless due to the misleading effects 
of the flickering moonlight. A clouded moon can 
often distort shapes queerly.” 

That s so, Barker, and Dave Stanhope nodded 
in affirmation. “ You must admit, gentlemen, that 
behind fitful clouds, as I know the moon was on 
Friday night, it does make earthly objects appear 
weird and even uncanny. As Shakespeare put it, 

‘ ^ makes a bush appear a bear.’ Isn’t that so? ” 


137 


RUBBER HEELS ] 

Fraser admitted there was something in this, but 
Lewis merely snorted his doubts. 

“ The trouble is,” Fraser said, frankly, “ there’s 
no other way to look. Mr. Hazelton was the last 
person known to see Mr. Lawrence alive—” 

“ By heavens! ” Barker cried, “if there’s one 
phrase that makes me madder than another, it’s that 
one! Somebody’s got to be the last known to see 
a victim alive before his murderer arrives on the 
scene! You don’t suppose the criminal is going to 
advertise his presence, as positively the last one! So 
the next to the last is picked on and accused! I was 
here, I did see Lawrence, I did quarrel with him, we 
did part in anger, but I didn’t kill him! ” 

“ Not then,” said Lewis, in his taunting way, 
“ but when you came down to the village on your 
second trip that night.” 

“ Who saw me come here ? ” demanded Barker. 

“ Your father said you came.” 

“ No. He only said I came down toward the 
village. You’ll have to bring some witnesses.” 

“ Perhaps we can do that.” 

“ Have you any? ” 

“ That’s telling,” and Lewis looked slyly wise. 

“ I think Mr. Hazelton is entitled to the truth,” 
Fraser said, resolutely; “ we have no witnesses, other 
than Miss Busby, as to any events of that night. 
Even more, we have made careful house to house 


138 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


inquiries and no one was seen on the road or side¬ 
walks all night long. In two houses, one at either 
end of this street, there was illness, and the people 
were up all night. They saw and heard no person 
or vehicle all night long. This does not entirely 
preclude the fact that there may have been such, but 
in the silence of the sickroom, at night, a wheel or a 
footstep would probably have been heard.” 

“ And yet you say / came here.” 

“ That’s the puzzle, Mr. Hazelton. But I feel 
you ought to know that no one saw you on the road.” 

“ Thank you,” said Barker, with a preoccupied 
look. “ But then how account for the queer man 
Miss Busby saw? ” 

“ I’m not sure that man was not entirely a fig¬ 
ment of Miss Busby’s imagination—aided and abetted 
by the magic of the moonlight.” 

“ But the footprints? ” 

“ Those are undoubtedly Mr. Lawrence’s own.” 

It was clear to be seen that Fraser and Lewis 
were diametrically opposed in their conclusions as 
well as in their methods. 

Stanhope exulted over this. If these two were 
at loggerheads, they would probably get nowhere, 
and, as there seemed little if any real evidence, the 
case would doubtless eventually be dropped as an in¬ 
soluble mystery. 

Stanhope was most eager to go in himself for real 


RUBBER HEELS 


139 


investigation, but he was held back by a lurking fear 
that Barker might be implicated—though his instinct 
told him the boy was innocent. However, he deter¬ 
mined to make some further examination in 
those upstairs rooms, which were still kept locked 
against intruders. 

Of course, he easily gained admission, and was 
still puttering around up there when word was 
brought him that they were all to repair to Gray 
Porches for luncheon. 

Stanhope followed the others, and found his 
chair at the side of Barker’s at the table where sat 
the newest arrivals of the house. 

Stanhope, a good mixer, claimed acquaintance 
with Mrs. Endicott and Mrs. Trent. Laughingly 
said, too, that he had known Miss Hemingway and 
Miss Lowe for ages, having come up from New York 
in the train with them. 

Barker at once made friends with all, having on 
his most sunny mood and affable manners. 

Mrs. Trent sat at his other side, and her rational 
business-like way of looking at things appealed to 
him. He hated fussy old women, but this lady was 
quick-witted and intelligent, and her short nods by 
way of assent instead of what he called palaver, made 
him ready and willing to converse with her. 

This did not at all suit the pleasure of the three 
younger women at the table, and as soon as the meal 


140 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


was over, they carried him off to a shady corner 
of a porch, supplied him with smoking materials and 
tried to build up a friendship, after the approved 
manner of summer boarders. 

But he politely resisted their efforts, he gaily 
parried their pleas, and with a word of explanation 
to Fraser, he bade brief adieus and swung off down 
the road. 

Stanhope took Fraser aside for a quiet talk. 

I ve found out something/’ he began. I’ve been 
poking around among Mr. Lawrence’s belongings— 
oh, I didn t really disturb anything—but I found out 
there are no shoes there that correspond to those foot¬ 
prints. Yes, they all have those rubber heels, with the 
same design. But they’re all more worn than are the 
ones that made those footprints. You know that de¬ 
sign of the star in the circle is exceedingly clear-cut 
and sharp in the prints. Well, all the shoes in the 
wardrobe, the ones that have that heel, and there are 
five pairs, are all more or less worn and blunted. Some 
are so run over that the design is effaced on one 
side. Some are worn more evenly. But not a pair 
has the design sharp and true as the footprints show 
it. What have you to say to that ? ” 

“ 1 sa y 1 think you are mistaken. We 
measured—” 

“ But > man > you’ve only to look at the shoes to 
see it! Measurement means nothing in this particu- 


RUBBER HEELS 


141 


lar. All of Mr. Lawrence’s shoes are too worn to 
have made those prints.” 

“ Then somebody else had a new pair of his shoes, 
or—or he had another pair of newer shoes—over at 
the club, perhaps—” 

“No, I telephoned over and there are no shoes 
of his there at all, except tennis shoes.” 

“ Well what do you make of it? ” 

“ I think they were not Lawrence’s shoes, but 
some other person’s.” 

“ The same size, and made on the same last.” 

“ That may be. Lots of men wear that size.” 

“ But not lots of men wear that pattern of heel. 
I’ve investigated all New Midian.” 

“ Then your murderer came from outside New 
Midian.” 

" Oho, I see! Your getting up this cock and bull 
story to divert suspicion from young Hazelton! ” 

“ I’d do anything in my power to divert suspicion 
from Barker Hazelton, but this I tell you is true. 
Go and look for yourself. You can’t say that sharp, 
clear imprints can be made with worn, dulled rub¬ 
ber heels! ” 

“ Then I say that Mr. Lawrence had a new pair 
of those shoes, that somebody purloined them and 
wore them there that night, for the purpose of dis¬ 
guising his footprints, and that he then wore the 


142 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


shoes away and has since concealed or destroyed 
them. What have you to say to that ? ” 

And Dave Stanhope had nothing to say. 

The two men walked slowly back to the Wood¬ 
bine. It was far pleasanter on the Gray Porches, but 
they had seen a man arriving at the cottage, whom 
Fraser knew to be the finger-print expert, in charge 
of the investigation of the window pane. 

He had his photographs with him. 

“ There are many prints,” he said, “ but they 
were all made by three people.” He pointed out his 
three sets of pictures. “ Now, how you’re going 
to find the people who match up to these prints, I don’t 
know. But I rather imagine one set of prints be¬ 
longs to the woman who washed the window. Their 
position on the glass gives me that impression.” 

“ That’s easily settled,” said Fraser. “ Emma 
Lily, the maid of all work is now next door, staying 
with Mrs. Gray. I’ll have her over.” 

Emma Lily was fetched and rather enjoyed the 
process of being finger-printed. To her mind it gave 
her a decided prestige, and she planned to tell Lizzie 
Busby about it in detail. 

The result of the matter was that the prints in 
question were undoubtedly Emma Lily’s and she ex¬ 
plained volubly how, when and why she had washed 
those windows. 

She was sent back in triumph, bearing her palms 


RUBBER HEELS 


143 


with her, in the shape of a fine set of her own finger¬ 
prints, and immediately became the heroine of Gray 
Porches for the rest of the afternoon. 

Even Mrs. Endicott and Mrs. Trent, though they 
had languidly declared themselves tired of the whole 
subject, condescended to inspect the prints and to 
ask all sorts of questions about the matter. 

“ And whose are the other prints? ” Mrs. Trent 
inquired, with a show of reviving interest. 

“ I don’t know, ma’am,” replied Emma Lily. 
“ And they don’t know, but they suspect to find out.” 

The way Fraser took to find out, was to go at once 
in search of Barker Hazelton. That headstrong 
young man had told him he would be at Gladys Lee’s 
house, and there Fraser went. 

He did not ask Stanhope to accompany him, so 
that amateur detective went back to his browsing in 
the Lawrence home. 

It may as well be stated right here that he found 
nothing he considered of any importance, and he 
drifted into the library and fell to reading the books 
he found there. It was a worthwhile selection and 
Dave soon became absorbed in a volume of beauti¬ 
ful poems, hitherto entirely unknown to him, though 
he was an omnivorous reader. 

Fraser, reaching the Lee cottage, confronted the 
two young people sitting in a hammock on the vine- 
covered porch. 


144 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Sorry to intrude/’ he said, grinning as they 
blushed a little, “ but business is business. I’d like 
the finger prints of you two. No objections, I 
suppose?” 

The expert had given Fraser the simple little 
outfit and the slight instruction necessary for getting 
the prints', and the now genial-faced coroner waited 
their response. 

“ Take mine, of course,” Barker said, “ but I 
can’t see any reason for troubling the young lady.” 

“ I can,” rejoined Fraser, cooly, “ and ’tain’t a 
mite of trouble. Just tap your fingers right there, 
Miss Lee.” 

And before Barker could interfere further the 
thing was done. 

His own were taken next, and Fraser went away 
with a slight word of thanks. 

“ I don’t like it, Glad,” Hazelton said, his eyes 
darkening. 

“Well, we couldn’t help ourselves. To refuse 
would have looked suspicious, and he’d have made 
us do it, anyway.” 

But Hazelton’s troubled eyes darkened still more 
when in an incredibly short time Fraser returned and 
deliberately seated himself near the disturbed pair. 

“ Now,” he said, “ we’ve got to have this thing 
out. And it may as well be right here. We’re shel- 


RUBBER HEELS 


145 


tered from the passers by and its cool and comfort¬ 
able. Your mother home, Miss Lee?” 

“ No, she isn’t.” 

“ Well, I only wanted her for a witness. But 
I see Mr. Stanhope coming along, and he’ll do. To 
put this thing in a nutshell, there are, except for that 
servant girl, only two sets of fingerprints on the 
Lawrence’s window, the one over the flower-bed, you 
know. And those two sets belong to you two people.” 

Stanhope arrived during the stillness that fol¬ 
lowed this statement. 

He sat down near the two, who were still in the 
hammock, sitting side by side and with clasped hands. 

“ Speak out, Bark,” Stanhope said. “ It’s the 
best way. You and Miss Lee would much better tell 
the absolute truth about that night. For, listen, boy, 
Emma Lily washed that window the day before the 
murder. There are no marks on it except hers and 
yours and Miss Lee’s. These facts are incontrovert¬ 
ible. You can’t get away from this evidence. You 
can’t make up any yarns about it. So, out with 
the truth.” 

“ I’ll tell—” began Gladys, but Barker inter¬ 
rupted her. 

“ Let me talk,” he said. “ Miss Lee did go over to 
see Mr. Lawrence late that night. She did so, be¬ 
cause she thought she could placate him and bring 
about a better feeling between him and myself.” 


146 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Fd prefer to hear Miss Lee tell about it herself,” 
said Fraser, not ungently, and Gladys took up the tale. 

“ There’s not much to tell,” she said, simply. 

Her little face was sweet and sincere of expres¬ 
sion. Her pretty hair glistened like gold in the sun¬ 
shine and her deep blue-gray eyes were fearless and 
straightforward. 

But it was her manner that was appealing. She 
had a little bird-like tilt to her head, especially when 
asking a question, and she gestured much with her 
hands, though not in any theatrical way. 

“You see,” she said, and her tone was confid¬ 
ing, “we had quarreled—Barker and I had. Oh, 
that’s nothing unusual, we often quarrel, just for 
the fun of making up,” she threw a roguish smile at 
the young man, and striking her rosy palms together 
as she resumed, she said, “ and you see, this time it 
was a terrible, terrible quarrel. So bad, that he went 
off home without making up! He never did that 
before. Now, you see, the quarrel was about Mr. 
Lawrence and the club presidency, but you know 
that? ” again that captivating tilt of the little head. 

“ And when I found that Bark had really gone 
off mad, and was not coming back that night—some¬ 
times,” most confidingly, “ he just goes down the 
road, and then back again. Well, when I found he 
wasn’t coming back, I decided to run over to Mr. 
Lawrence’s and see what I could do.” 

“ About what? ” 


RUBBER HEELS 


147 


“ Why, about settling that club matter. Of 
course, I know all about it—I know a lot more about 
it than most of the club members, and I thought if 
I could talk to Mr. Lawrence I might influence him 
—” her little gesture and the nod of her head, made 
it seem likely she could have done so. 

“ Go on/’ said Fraser, briefly. 

“ So I went over there—” she spoke more slowly 
now, as if feeling her way. “ And it was pretty dark 
in the house—” 

“ What time was this ? ” 

“ Oh, something after eleven, I don’t know. 
That’s not so very late.” 

“ No; go on.” 

“ Don’t say 4 go on ’ to me like that! I’m not a 
horse! ” 

Fraser had to smile at the pretty petulance, but 
he was on his guard, was Fraser, and he merely 
nodded. 

“ Well, there seemed to be nobody about, so I 
supposed they’d all gone to bed, and I came back.” 

“ Without seeing anybody—I mean anybody of 
the Lawrence household ? ” 

" No, not anybody.” 


CHAPTER IX 

GLADYS LEE 

Fraser didn’t quite believe the girl. And yet, she 
looked so sweet and good, so little and appealing, 
he couldn’t suspect her of crime or implication in a 
crime. It might be she was not telling the truth, 
that she had gone into the Lawrence house, and per¬ 
haps had interviewed Nevin Lawrence, but fearing 
consequences, had concluded to deny it. 

However, her finger prints on the window pane 
were explained by the admitted fact that she had 
looked in at that window, and there was really noth¬ 
ing further in the way of evidence against her. 

And a soft, pretty little thing like that! It was 
out of the question. Of course there was still Barker. 

But his replies to Fraser’s questions were indefi¬ 
nite and unsatisfactory. 

“Why, yes,” he said, “I did look in at that 
window, when I went to the house about nine o’clock. 
I had no special reason for doing so, except a casual 
curiosity to see if they were at home, and if they had 
visitors. I think, i f you can’t hang anything but those 
silly fingerprints on me, you’d better guess again.” 

Fraser looked at the two young people. He 

148 


GLADYS LEE 


149 


prided himself on his ability to read faces, but this 
time he felt baffled. 

He could scarcely think this fine, though high- 
tempered youth and this really lovely girl were mixed 
up in the worst murder he had ever known. And 
yet, he could think of no other way to look. 

“ I say, Fraser,” put in Dave Stanhope, “ why 
don’t you let up on these kids? They won’t run 
away, and there are, there must be other ways to 
look. Seek a motive. That foolishness about the 
club isn’t enough to bring about a murder! You’re 
crazy to put it up to these youngsters.” 

“ I can’t think Miss Lee is in it—not as a prin¬ 
cipal, anyway, but I suppose a fiery, hot-headed 
young man, who loses his head when he gets angry, 
is at least, a possibility.” 

“ Then, leave it at that,” said Stanhope, “ Bar¬ 
ker won’t run away. And you try to find another 
suspect with a greater motive. Why, it may well 
have been somebody connected with the past life 
of the brother and sister. It may have been an enemy 
who has been tracking Lawrence down for years, 
and just found him up here. You see, the lack of 
knowledge of any sort about the past of these people 
is a queer thing in itself.” 

“ No,” Fraser said, slowly, “ that isn’t queer. 
There are lots of people in New Midian of whose life 
before they came here we know nothing. Nor do we 


0 


150 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


care. Only the idly curious are interested in such 
matters, and as everybody liked Lawrence and Mrs. 
Sayre, they cared nothing for their previous life. 
And it was no secret. I find they readily answered 
questions about it, but nobody wanted to ask details. 
Oh, I’ve inquired a lot among the village people, and 
I find one and all, repudiate the idea of any dark 
past. However, I have a few more stones to turn 
over, and I’ll be about it. Don’t leave town, Mr. 
Hazelton.” 

“ No, I sha’n’t,” Barker said, and Fraser went 
away. 

He went directly to the home of Miss Busby, and 
had a talk with her. 

On the way he met the man whom Stanhope 
dubbed White Face. 

As usual the man was very pale, and showed a 
furtive, cringing air as if afraid of some intangi¬ 
ble menace. 

On a sudden impulse Fraser stopped to speak 
to him. 

“ Good day,” he said; “ I’m told you went to the 
Lawrence house to look at the victims of the crime. 
Have you known them long? ” 

“ I—I never knew them,” said the man with a 
shudder. “ I—I thought maybe I did—and so—” 

His voice trailed away in a murmur, and Fraser 


GLADYS LEE 


151 


wondered whether his time wasn't wasted in talking 
to such a poor, spineless piece of humanity. 

But he added, “ you’re from over my way, I 
think. Beechfield? ” 

“ Yes, I’m up here on a little vacation.” 

“ May I ask your name ? ” 

“Me? Oh, I’m John Taylor. I’m from 
Chicago.” 

“ Chicago. That’s where Mr. Lawrence and his 
sister hailed from.” 

“ So I heard. But I don’t know ’em. I never 
saw ’em before. I’m sure of that.” 

But Fraser wasn’t so sure. This man was queer 
—yet, of course, he couldn’t be the queer man Miss 
Busby had seen, for he was a tall, big man. This 
chap was small, thin and a little bent. Not an old 
man, but his general effect was that of hopeless in¬ 
efficiency. He could no more plan and carry out a 
crime than he could build a statehouse. He was, 
Fraser concluded, the most uninteresting character 
he had ever seen. 

Yet, had the astute Fraser but known it, White 
Face loomed large in importance among the people 
connected with the Lawrence tragedy. 

And he gave a hint of this. 

“ I don’t suppose,” he said, timidly, “ I don’t 
suppose it has occurred to you to—that is, to—” 


152 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Well, to what? Speak out man. Don’t stand 
there mumbling. I’m busy—” 

“Yes—yes, I won’t detain you—” 

“ Yes you will. You tell what you were about 
to say.” 

“ Why, only what you must know already. What 
every detective knows. Has it come to you that you 
might look for—that is, look for—” 

This time Fraser did not interrupt, but waited 
patiently for the finish. 

It came in the merest whisper, “ a woman.” 

“ A woman,” Fraser repeated, his thoughts flying 
back to Gladys Lee. “ Why? ” 

“Why, because it’s always a possibility. A 
woman has so many motives, jealousy, love, hatred, 
petty spite—” the man Taylor’s voice trailed off in 
that maddening way he had. 

“ And haven’t men such motives ? ” 

“ Not exactly. Men are bigger, they need a 
big, fierce motive. But a woman, now—” 

Oh, nonsense, this crime is too big, too awful for 
a woman. Why, I’ve just been talking to a girl 
about it—” 

“ Oh, not a girl—I don’t mean a girl—” 

“ Well, do you mean anybody, anybody definite? 
Have you Emma Lily in mind? ” 

Taylor looked scared. 

“Oh, Lord, I haven’t anybody in mind. Not 


GLADYS LEE 


153 


anybody special. Maybe I’m all wrong—like as not 
I am. Like as not. Like as not—” 

Still muttering, he rambled away and Fraser let 
him go. He sized him up for a visionary, idle fellow, 
who loved to voice his vague, indefinite thoughts. 

But he thought about him as he went on to Miss 
Busby’s, and, arriving, he asked her if she had ever 
seen him. 

“ Yes, I have,” she said, in her decided way. 
“ I’ve seen him a heap of times, wandering about like 
a lost soul. I don’t think he’s touched, exactly, but 
I think he’s a sort of a nervous wreck. Anyway, he’s 
not worth thinking about.” 

“ It couldn’t have been he who was the queer 
man? ” 

“Good land, no!” and she laughed outright. 
“ Why that queer man I saw would make two of that 
little rat.” 

“ Well, he advised me to look for the woman.” 

This had a strange effect on Lizzie Busby. 

“He did, did he?” she cried; “how utterly 
ridiculous! ” 

“You don’t think—now—Miss Busby, that is 
just between us—you don’t have the least suspicion 
of Emma Lily, do you? ” 

“Emma Lily! Well, I should say not! Why 
Emma Lily Stagg is one of the finest women I know 
—if she is a servant girl! ” 

“ But she inherits quite a sum—” 


154 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Oh, hush, you make me sick! Inherits! Do 
you suppose she would kill two people to get two 
thousand dollars? How about George Bailey? He 
inherits too.” 

“ He has a sound alibi. But, never mind the 
money. Could Emma Lily have been—you know— 
sweet on Mr. Lawrence ? ” 

Busybody Busby stared at him in silence for a 
moment, then she said : 

“ Now, look here. I know all the gossip of this 
town. I know more about everybody than anybody 
else knows. And there’s no notion you could trump 
up more comical than that! Emma Lily! My 
heavens, Mr. Lawrence wouldn’t have looked at her, 
except as a house-keeper. I guess you didn’t know 
him!” 

“No, of course, I didn’t. Well, is there any 
woman you know of who—who admired Mr. 
Lawrence ? ” 

Lizzie Busby pondered so long over this question 
that Fraser was surprised and eagerly awaited her 
answer. 

No, she said at last, “ you’re on the wrong 
tack. I don’t know of any such—but maybe it’s my 
duty to tell what I do know.” 

“ Of course it is,” Fraser said, quietly. 

“Well, it’s only this. And I shouldn’t have 
spoken only you began about a woman. That little 


GLADYS LEE 155 

Lee girl was at the Lawrence house very late that 
night.” 

“How late?” 

“ Well after midnight.” 

Fraser considered this. Gladys had said about 
eleven. And he felt there was a lot of difference 
between eleven and well after midnight 
“ You’re sure? ” he asked. 

“ Positive. I saw her myself.” 

“ But that was before the queer man came.” 

“ Oh, yes, he didn’t come till about two. But 
we don’t know that he went into the house at all.” 

“ That’s so. Now, Miss Busby, you can’t think 
for a minute that a little scrap of a girl like that 
pretty Gladys Lee could possibly—” 

“ Oh, you men! You say, look for a woman, 
then if there’s a hint toward one, you say, ‘ oh, such 
a pretty girl couldn’t do anything wrong! ’ I don’t 
say Gladys Lee killed those people, I don’t say Bar¬ 
ker Hazdton did, but I do say that you’ve nowhere 
else to turn your inquiries! ” 

“ Except your queer man—” 

“ Don’t call him my queer man! I did see him, 
looking in the window—” 

“ He left no fingerprints—unless he was young 
Hazelton in disguise.” 

“ He might have been,” Miss Lizzie said, mus¬ 
ingly. “ But I can’t say and I won’t say anything 


156 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


bad about Barker. He's a fine chap, and I 
don't want to wrong him a mite. And another thing; 
I don't want you to tell Bark that I said I saw Gladys. 
I tell you, because I feel it my duty, but I don’t think 
you need let on to Barker that I told you.” 

“ No, Miss Lizzie, I won’t. I have my eye on 
Gladys, and I'll find out more about her—” 

“ I’ll tell you where to go for information. That 
Rosie Gale, she’s George’s sweetheart—George, the 
Lawrence chauffeur, you know—she works for Mrs. 
Lee, in her dressmaking. Now, Rosie, she’s a good 
reliable girl, and she knows all there is to know about 
Gladys. Why don’t you see her ? ” 

“ I will. And I’m glad you told me all you have, 
and I promise I’ll never let Hazelton know who told 
me. Good day, Miss Lizzie.” 

Being a hot iron striker, Fraser went at once to 
the home of Rosie Gale. It was the village dinner 
time, and he hoped to find her at home. 

He did, and she left her midday meal to talk 
to him. 

Rosie was a wholesome looking, fair-haired girl, 
with wide blue eyes that seemed to challenge the 
world. 

“ Gladys Lee,” she repeated, to Fraser’s ques¬ 
tion, “ why, I don’t know anything of Gladys but 
good. She is one of the sweetest girls I know. She 
is generous, kind, truthful, daring—” 

“ Daring? What do you mean by that? ” 


GLADYS LEE 


157 


“ I mean she isn’t afraid of anything—any dan¬ 
ger. Why, she’s crazy to be a motion picture actress, 
the kind that leaps over chasms and speeds in auto¬ 
mobiles and shoots straight—” 

“ Shoots! Can that little gin shoot ? ” 

“You bet she can. She just loves it—rifle, 
revolver—why she said once she’d like to fire off 
a cannon! ” 

“ She looks so slight—” 

“ Ho, that’s nothing. What girl isn’t slight ? 
But Glad is a hummer at all sorts of dangerous games. 
I’ve seen her do trapeze stunts that made my hair 
stand on end.” 

“ H’m, now what about her disposition? Is she 
vindictive? ” 

“ Gladys Lee? Not a bit of it. Forgiving and pa¬ 
tient—unless she really gets her dander up. Once in a 
while she does that, and then fur flies, I tell you! ” 

“And what arouses this state of things?” 

“ Oh, something connected with some one else, 
most likely. She’ll stand anything herself, but if 
anybody insults some one she loves, say, her mother, 
Glad turns into a regular wildcat.” 

“ And anyone beside her mother? ” , 

“ No, I guess not, unless, Oh, yes, of course, her 
beau, Mr. Hazelton.” 

“ Is he her beau? ” 

“ Yes, he is, though his father isn’t a bit happy 


158 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


over it.” Rosie giggled. “ But, I say, what are you 
asking me all this for? ” 

“ Don’t be alarmed. You have told nothing but _ 
what everybody knows, isn’t that so ? ” 

“ Why, yes, of course. Everybody who knows 
Gladys well, knows all that about her. But I don’t 
like the way you dragged it out of me.” 

“ Oh, come, now, I didn’t do that. And anyway, 
I’ll never tell that you told me anything at all.” 

Rosie’s face cleared. 

“ All right then,” she said, “ for I don’t want 
to lose my job with Gladys’ mother.” 

“You sha’n’t—not through anything I tell. Now, 
forget all this and run back and finish your dinner.” 

As Fraser walked away, he had much food for 
thought. 

The greatest barrier to any suspicion of Gladys 
Lee was her sweet, gentle girlishness. Now this was 
counteracted by the knowledge that she was a fine 
shot, and loved to shoot! Could she have killed those 
two people? The idea was as untenable as ever, 
except for the information about the shooting, and 
also, for the revelation that she was ready to fight 
for those she loved. And she did love Bar¬ 
ker Hazelton. 

So Fraser pondered, as he walked back to Gray 
Porches to get his own luncheon. 

The porches were full of chattering people, and 


GLADYS LEE 159 

he took his usual seat between Mrs. Endicott and 
Mrs. Trent. 

Somehow these ladies had managed to interest 
him, doubtless because they were themselves so in¬ 
terested in the progress of events. 

“ I admit I did get rather tired of the horrible 
details,” Mrs. Trent said to him once, “ but now that 
its all detective work, I find it absorbing. You are a 
wonderful worker, Mr. Fraser.” 

And with similar flattering wiles did Mrs. Endi¬ 
cott ply him, until it had become the usual thing for 
him to report to them any new bit of evidence he 
might find. 

And yet there was little to be told them. He 
hinted at Gladys Lee, and both ladies spurned the 
idea as too utterly ridiculous to be considered. 

But when he told them that she was expert with 
firearms, and of a daring, danger-loving disposition, 
they marveled. 

“ All the same,” Mrs. Trent declared, “ that child 
never did it. I’ve seen her, and I know she couldn’t 
compass such a fearful thing.” 

“ Barker Hazelton said a funny thing,” observed 
Mrs. Endicott. “ He said to find the one who 
smashed the little statuette, and you’d have 
the murderer.” 

“How ridiculous!” cried Mrs. Trent. “That 


0' 


160 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


is, unless he just meant that in his haste the mur¬ 
derer knocked the thing over.” 

“ What else could he mean? ” asked Fraser, who 
was not very subtle. 

“ Why,” explained Mrs. Trent, “ I thought he 
might mean that the murderer had some reason for 
smashing the Tanagra figure. They’re valuable, you 
know, and the criminal might have broken it out of 
sheer angry fury—” 

“ I don’t see any sense in that,” Fraser said. “ If 
the thing is valuable, why not steal it? ” 

u Oh, he knocked it over accidentally,” said Mrs. 
Endicott, impatiently, “ such trifling gets you no¬ 
where. Why don’t you find some good clues, smart 
ones, like Sherlock Homes always found?” 

“Not so easy to do,” Fraser returned, smiling. 
“ But we’ve some clues—the footprints, the finger¬ 
prints—” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee! ” exclaimed Ben Gray, coming 
by, “ those are no good. The crime was committed 
by a passing highwayman. I know we’ve never had 
one here before, but that’s the only solution, and 
I wish you’d let it go at that. Suspicion of Barker 
Hazelton is foolish, and as to that little Lee girl, she 
wouldn’t have the nerve, I don’t care how scatter 
brained she is! Now, give it up, Fraser, call it per¬ 
son or persons unknown, and shut up shop. We 
all liked Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Sayre, but they 


GLADYS LEE 


161 


wa’n’t related to none of us, and while its a horrible 
thing, yet it won’t do our village any good to harp 
on it for the rest of the summer. Now, we liked those 
people, and we treated them white while they were 
with us. Now, they’ve left a tidy bit to our library, 
and I say take the gift the gods provide, drop the 
whole case, and forget it.” 

“ That’s all very well, Ben,” said Fraser, “ and I 
understand you. You think it’ll hurt your house 
and your business to have the case go on, and so for 
personal reasons you want it dropped, but—” 

“I think Mr. Gray is right,” Mrs. Trent said, 
in her decided way. “ He speaks not only for his 
own business, but for the good of the whole village. 
It won’t do any good to pursue this futile inquiry, 
and it will give this lovely little place a bad name. 
Do hush the matter up.” 

“ Well, you see, Mrs. Trent, that ain’t so easy 
as it sounds. Us as have sworn our oath to the 
government, to do all we can to keep law and order, 
we take it to include doing our utmost to punish 
crime. ’Specially such a horrible one as this. Why, 
I’d ought to be drummed out of the country if I laid 
down on this job. No, sir-ee! I’m going to do all 
I can. But if it was some stranger just passing 
through the village, and if he got clean away, why, 
then, of course, we can’t get him. I’ve quite a strong 
belief in Lizzie Busby’s queer man—leastways, I 
11 


162 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


did, till just recently, when I got started on a new 
tack. But give it up? Not on your life! And if 
it points much stronger to Barker Hazelton, why 
he’ll have to stand trial, that’s all. If he’s really in¬ 
nocent, no harm can come to him.” 

The subject of this speech was at that moment 
saying pretty much the same thing to Dave Stanhope. 

“ Of course I didn’t kill those people, Dave,” 
Barker said, “ and as I didn’t, I’ll pull through even 
if it comes to a trial.” 

“ But if you can prove your innocence then, you 
can prove it now,” Stanhope objected. “ And the 
disgrace and danger of a trial would just about kill 
your mother.” 

“ Oh, no it wouldn’t. She’d have a few hysterics 
and then she’d be all right. But Lord knows, I don’t 
want a trial, it’s only—” 

“ As usual, you’re thinking of Gladys.” 

“Yes, I am. Wouldn’t you be? You must 
realize, old chap, that I love that little girl, and I’ll 
go through fire and water for her, and, if necessary, 
I’ll die for her.” 

Barker spoke solemnly, so much so, that Dave 
looked at him in surprise. 

“ Look here, old man, do you know anything 
more than you’ve told me ” 

“ No—except that I /know Gladys. Few know 
the depths of fire and passion under that fluffy little 


GLADYS LEE 


163 


exterior. She has the strongest will and the most 
immovable determination I’ve ever seen. And she 
has a marvelous sense of justice—I don’t mean 
revenge, but if she thought punishment was called 
for, she’d stop at nothing to bring it about.” 

“ Now, see here, Barker, don’t let’s mince our 
words. Do you mean, for what else can you mean? 
that Gladys could have thought Nevin Lawrence was 
so unjust to you in that club matter, that justice re¬ 
quired her to go there and kill him ? ” 

“ It does sound absurd, when you put it into 
words, doesn’t it? But I’ll have to admit, Dave, that 
its the fear of some such thing that is knocking me 
galley west. I don’t think it, I can’t think it, yet 
there might have been circumstances that would bring 
that about. No, I don’t suspect her—my little girl 
—but I must stand back of her if any one else sus¬ 
pects her.” 

“ And your father said to remember he stands 
back of you.” 

“ Ah, but that didn’t mean if Gladys is in the 
game too. Dad would quickly retract that promise, 
if he knew I was shielding her. Oh, I’m no fool, 
I know father’s attitude perfectly, but I know my 
own heart, and much as I love and respect dad, I’d 
leave this house forever rather than give up my little 
girl. You see, dad loves me, but he doesn’t quite 
understand me. When I was a kid, I was an awful 


164 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


liar, I really was. But it was always to get out from 
under father’s wrath. If he’d been more lenient to 
my childish misdeeds, I’d have told the truth. But 
he was so stern, so uncompromising, that I lied, as 
the line of least resistance. I’ve outgrown the habit, 
I truly have, but father never will trust me. I be¬ 
lieve he more than half thinks I killed those people.” 

“ Oh, Barker, he can’t.” 

“ Well, he will, if Gladys is charged with it, and 
I confess to the crime.” 

“ Now, look here, my dear boy, there is no 
more mistaken procedure than to confess a crime 
you did not commit, to shield another.” 

“ May be a mistaken procedure, but it’s the one 
I’m going to put over. If they so much as hint 
at that angel girl in connection with that terrible 
thing, I shall just go straight down and give myself 
up. And no man worthy of the name could do less.” 

“ Nobody will believe you.” 

“ Except dad, of course.” The bitterness of 
voice was strong. And then the telephone rang. 
Emma Lily was calling for Barker. 

“I thought I’d tell you,” she said, “I say, I 
thought I’d tell you—they’re goin’ to arrest Glad 
Lee. I thought I’d tell you, seein’s you might better 
know.” 

“Are you sure, Emma Lily?” Barker’s voice 
was steady and even. 


GLADYS LEE 


165 


“ Yes, I’m sure. That Fraser, he’s got a warrant. 
You cornin’ down here? I say, you cornin’ down 
here? ” 

“ You bet I’m coming down there! And you 
tell that fool Fraser not to dare do that thing until 
he sees me! Get that ? ” 

But Barker waited for no reply. He hung up 
the receiver, and without even a word to Stanhope, 
grabbed his hat and rushed out of the front door. 


o 


CHAPTER X 


EVIDENCE 

Barker Hazelton strode into the Woodbine 
cottage with a look on his face that fairly frightened 
Emma Lily as she admitted him. 

“ Now, look here, Mr. Fraser,” the young man 
said, “ I’m simply fighting mad, but I don’t want to 
bluster or rant around. I just want you to answer 
one or two questions which I have every right 
to ask. First, on what grounds do you propose to 
arrest Gladys Lee? ” 

“Well, Mr. Hazelton, she was here late that 
night; she is an expert, I am told, with firearms; she 
is a loyal friend and sweetheart—” 

“ None of that is evidence. Go on.” Barker’s 
face was coldly stem. 

“ Then I’ll admit our strongest argument,” and 
Fraser looked at Lewis with an inquiring glance. 

“ I’ll tell him,” and Lewis grinned. “ You prob¬ 
ably don’t know, Mr. Hazelton, that the psycho¬ 
analysts have come to the conclusion that much 
mischief is done by young girls.” 

“ Is that so? ” and Barker stared at him, with 
a look of half-amused curiosity. 

166 


EVIDENCE 


167 


Just then Stanhope arrived, having followed his 
impetuous young friend with all possible speed. 

“ Dave,” Barker greeted him, “ what do you 
think? Mr. Lewis tells me he’s a student of psycho¬ 
analysis! ” 

“ And does it affect our case ? ” asked Stanhope, 
lightly. 

“ Yes, sir, it does! ” Lewis exclaimed, incensed at 
the implied slight; “ you may not know, unless you 
are versed in these matters, that many crimes are 
directly traceable to little girls. Look at that case 
of ghosts up in Antigonish. All the work of 
a sly, young girl. Look at the historic cases of the 
doings in the Wesley house, and the Fox sisters; 
look at the girl out west who fooled the doctors with 
her high temperature. Look at the photographs of 
fairies that bamboozled a well-known author. One 
and all the work of young girls. Therefore, we have 
precedent for our belief that Gladys Lee is capable 
of this crime. Now, wait a minute; she may not be 
capable of it normally, or at all times. But she is 
capable of being roused to a frenzy of hatred or 
revenge. She is capable of such a state of subcon¬ 
scious excitement that she could commit a crime in¬ 
voluntarily, almost instinctively—perhaps even 
unconsciously.” 

“ Oh, come now, Mr. Lewis,” Stanhope said, 
kindly, as if to a wayward child, “ there is a lot in 


168 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


that psycho-analysis business, and doctors are learn¬ 
ing more about it all the time, but it is dangerous in 
the hands of a beginner. I can see'you’ve read more 
or less of it, and you’re trying to apply it to your 
work. But, my friend, you’ll have to study it a 
great deal more deeply before you can preach or 
practise it.” 

“ That’s all very well, Mr. Stanhope, but the 
facts remain. They are as I’ve stated. And we hold 
that there is sufficient evidence against the girl to 
arrest her. She was here much later than the time 
she herself admitted. She left her fingerprints on 
the windowpane. She denies entering the house, 
but of course, she would do that. And she is known 
to be a high-strung, high-tempered, erratic young 
thing, of just the temperament to possess a dual 
nature.” 

“ Everybody possesses a dual nature, Mr. Lewis.” 

“ Yes, I know that. But in some the subconscious 
mind has far greater force and strength than in 
others.” 

“ You mean its manifestations are more marked 
or more frequent.” 

“ That’s exactly what I mean. And some in¬ 
quiries I’ve made prove that Gladys Lee is such.” 

“ Now hold on there!” broke in Barker, “ I 
won’t have that girl talked about like that! She is 
the most normal, natural—” 


EVIDENCE 


169 


“ Keep still, Bark,” Stanhope said, “ we are not 
aspersing her. I understand what Mr. Lewis means, 
and his general statements are correct, or partly so. 
But Mr. Lewis, you must remember that these tricks 
that have been cut up by naughty little girls are, for 
the most part, merely mischief, not crime. There 
is a vast difference between playing spook or making 
up fairies, and murdering two people.” 

“ That is true,” Lewis rejoined, “ but the prin¬ 
ciple is the same. And I hold that the suppression 
of a desire to get rid of a person, brings about a state 
of the subconscious mind that makes it possible to 
do the deed while in a subconscious state.” 

“ You are tampering with deep subjects, Mr. 
Lewis,” Stanhope said, gravely. “ I do not deny 
your statements, but I do doubt your academic knowl¬ 
edge and your thorough experience of these matters. 
Yet I can see how you think it all applies to Gladys 
Lee, and while I don’t agree with you, I want to con¬ 
sider the thing further.” 

“ Consideration be hanged! ” cried Barker, ob¬ 
stinately. “ It’s all poppycock, that stuff about sub- 
consciousness and all that—” 

“ Now, Bark, don’t express yourself on subjects 
you know nothing whatever about,” Stanhope spoke 
sharply. “ These matters are outside your ken, but 
they are possible factors in the case.” 

“ They are not,” and Hazelton’s eyes glittered. 


170 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ They have nothing to do with the case. Because, 
Mr. Lewis, I am the murderer and I am here to give 
myself up.” 

Lewis and Fraser looked at him, the one with 
a slight, amused smile, the other with a stare of 
blank amazement. 

“ Not good enough, Mr. Hazelton,” Lewis said; 
“if you had handed out that line of talk at the start, 
we were ready to swallow it, but when you come 
along with it, only to save your sweetheart, it won’t 
wash.” 

“ But it’s true. I confess the crime—I was beside 
myself with anger, with rage, and I saw red, I simply 
lost my head, and I did for Nevin Lawrence.” 

“And for Mrs. Sayre? ” 

Barker gulped, and swallowed, then, “ yes,” he 
said, with an air of determination, “ yes. I scarcely 
knew what I was doing—” 

“ And you don’t know what you’re talking 
about! ” Lewis fairly snorted in disgust. “ You 
can’t put it over, I tell you.” 

“Look here,” Fraser said, suddenly, “you said, 
Mr. Hazelton, find the one who broke the little statue, 
and you’ve got the murderer.” 

“ Yes,” Barker exclaimed. “ I broke the 
statuette.” 

“ Why?” 


EVIDENCE 


171 


“ Oh, just in my blind rage. I tell you I ran 
amuck—I didn’t care what I did—■” 

“And you don’t care what you say!” scoffed 
Lewis. “ Now, look here, Miss Lee’s fingerprints are 
superimposed on your own, on that windowpane. 
Yet you say you were there after she was.” 

“But I didn’t look in the window that time! ” 
the young man spoke eagerly. “ I looked in the 
window when I was there the first time—early in 
the evening.” 

“ Oh, I see. Then, according to her own story, 
Miss Lee just sauntered round there, looked in at 
the darkened window and went home again.” 

“ Yes,” said Barker, his eyes warily watching 
Lewis’ face. 

“Wait a minute,” Lewis referred to his note¬ 
book. “ I made a mistake; it was the other way. I 
see, your fingerprints are over Miss Lee’s, My error. 
Now what? ” 

“ I made a mistake, too,” said Barker, steadily: 
“ I remember now I did look in at that window the 
second time I went there.” 

“ Small use in continuing this farce,” and Lewis 
snapped a rubber band round his notebook with an 
air of finality. 

“ No,” Stanhope said, “ you can’t work that con¬ 
fession, Barker. Let’s try something else.” 



m 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ What shall we try, Dave? ” Barker spoke with 
a pathetic earnestness. 

“ I know what we’ll try, old chap, and I know 
it’ll help. Now, Mr. Fraser, won’t you meet us half 
way. Don’t arrest that little girl for a day or two. 
Wait until after the funeral of those people is over, 
wait until Mr. Hazelton gets back from the White 
Mountains, wait until you get at least a little more 
direct evidence, a little surer reason for your extra¬ 
ordinary arrest. You know what trouble it makes 
for you to arrest the wrong person. Gladys Lee won’t 
run away. You can watch her, if you like. But don’t 
act hastily—and you must admit your decision was 
a hasty one.” 

Lewis looked at him in silence for a moment, 
then said: “you’re a wise man, Mr. Stanhope. I’ll 
hand it to you. And I don’t want to get in dutch by 
a false arrest. I’m convinced myself that the little 
girl is the criminal—why, I read about a—” 

“ Spare us those stories, please,” said Stanhope, 
a little curtly. “ We can all read them for ourselves. 
And remember, they are mostly about younger girls 
and lesser crimes. Don’t let your imagination distort 
the facts on which those stories are based. Now, 
Mr. Fraser, will you let matters rest for about three 
days? It can do your work no harm, I’m sure. Of 
course, if important evidence turns up that will make 
a difference. But unless it does, will you wait over ?” 


EVIDENCE 


173 


Yes, I d rather do so,” Fraser said, thoughtfully. 
“ I f ee l myself Mr. Lewis is a bit too previous.” 

So the confab broke up, and as it was not very 
late, Barker went over to see Gladys for a few 
minutes, and Stanhope went in to Gray Porches to 
await his return. 

The boarding house had come to be a sort of 
rendezvous for an exchange of gossip or opinions 
about the Lawrence case, as it was now called. 

This state of things did not at all please Ben 
Gray, who hated to have his house infested, as he put 
it, with scandal mongers. 

But his boarders were always interested, and es¬ 
pecially the older ones, who discussed every bit of 
news and tore to pieces every new theory. 

Not that theories were numerous. Most people 
agreed with Ben Gray that the crime was done by a 
robber, who being interrupted, perhaps as he was 
acquiring the valuable statue, killed the house¬ 
holders to save himself. 

It was preposterous, and yet it was the least so 
of all that had been suggested. 

“ You see,” said Mrs. Trent, who was a little 
autocratic, and who had already won a sort of pre¬ 
eminence over the longer established Mrs. Endicott, 
“ you see, any other supposition is absurd. The mo¬ 
tive is far too slight for young Hazelton, and as to 
that slip of a girl—the idea is too ridiculous.” 



174 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ But,” said Mrs. Endicott, in her best Bostonian 
manner, “ you must remember, dear Mrs. Trent, that 
there are complexes, arising from suppression of im¬ 
pulses that lead to most unbelievable crimes.” 

The lady from Boston was very chummy with 
the lady from New York, but sometimes she rather 
resented the infringement on her own popularity. Mrs. 
Endicott was accustomed to being queen bee at Gray 
Porches, and now Mrs. Trent was achieving an almost 
equally important position among the boarders. 

The latter tossed her head, after the manner of 
those who “ do not believe in all that psychological 
rubbish! ” and pursued her own subject. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ the awful thugs and yeggs— 
I believe that’s what they call them—that abound in 
our metropolis, have begun, probably to drift up 
here, and though it is a horrible prediction, this may 
not be the last of such marauders.” 

“ Oh, hush, Mrs. Trent, you make my flesh 
creep!” cried Miss Lowe. “I’ve always thought 
this place a veritable paradise where nothing unpleas¬ 
ant ever entered.” 

“ And now the serpent has got in! ” exclaimed 
Miss Hemingway, with the air of saying something 
of great originality. 

“ I can’t think the murderer a novice,” said Mr. 
Endicott, ponderously, “ for he left no clues.” 

“ Most murderers are novices,” argued Mrs. 


EVIDENCE 


175 


Trent, “ I don’t believe it often becomes a calling 
with them.” 

“No, I fancy one murder would satisfy the 
average assassin,” Stanhope said. “ Mrs. Trent, 
there is in your home town a fine detective named 
Stone. Ever hear of him? ” 

“ No,” was the reply, “ I never did. Do you 
think of employing him? ” 

“ I do think of it,” Dave returned. “ But I’ve 
gone no further than the thought. I shall wait till 
Mr. Hazelton gets home—” 

“ But I thought you were more or less of a detec¬ 
tive, yourself,” Mrs. Endicott said to him. 

“ I fancied I was,” and Stanhope frowned, “ but 
I’ve got nowhere in this matter. I searched the 
rooms for clues, and found nothing. I’ve tried to 
delve into the past history of the victims, with no 
results whatever. I’ve made inquiries and investiga¬ 
tions in the village, which brought forth nothing. 
Either I am an absolute blank as a detective or else, 
in this case, there is nothing to detect.” 

“You’ve found nothing?” asked Ben Gray. 

“ Nothing at all. Not the weapon, not the shoes 
that made those footprints, not the identity of the 
strange man seen by Miss Busby, not the missing 
pearl stickpin, not a scintilla of evidence or an iota 
of motive—that is, none of any real worth.” 


176 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ You have drawn blank, haven’t you? ” observed 
Gray. “ Well, that supports my theory that there’s 
nothing to find.” 

“ I suppose so,” Stanhope admitted, “ and that’s 
why I’d like to see Fleming Stone take hold of the 
case, and see what he can do with it.” 

The next day but one the double funeral was 
held. The cottage was crowded until it seemed that 
the whole village and a few neighboring ones had 
come, whether from respect or curiosity, to attend 
the services. 

No relatives of the victims of the tragedy had 
been discovered. Advertisements had brought no 
response, inquiries had divulged no information. 
Without mourners other than neighbors, the last 
rites were said over the two caskets. 

Ben Gray was in charge, which was sufficient 
guaranty that all would be circumspect and correct. 

Stanhope insisted that Barker should go with 
him, for the elder man feared criticism if young 
Hazelton stayed away. Amos, it was hoped could 
get there, but his train was late, and he reached New 
Midian after the congregation had assembled. 

Going straight home, Amos Hazelton made for 
a shady corner of a veranda where he could rest and 
wait for his son. 

To his surprise, he found there before him, a 
slip of a girl, with soft, curly hair, that seemed to 


EVIDENCE 


177 


sparkle when the sun touched it, and big blue-gray 
eyes that looked at him with a troubled gaze. 

“ Mr. Hazelton,” this young stranger said, “ I 
am Gladys Lee. I know you don’t like me, I know 
you don’t want to speak to me,” her little hands 
clasped themselves in a gesture of appeal, “ but in 
the name of the love you and I both have for Barker, 
I want to beg you to listen to me a moment.” 

Amos Hazelton looked at her. He was quick 
to detect theatricalism or posing, but he could see 
none here. Either, he concluded to himself, she was 
a truly accomplished actress or she was desperately 
sincere. He would find out. 

“ Go on,” he said. 

“ I’ve only time for a few words, but,” she lifted 
her head with that engaging bird-like tilt, “ they must 
be said. First, Barker is in danger— serious 
danger.” 

“ On account of you,” this with a stern, accus¬ 
ing glance. 

“ Yes,” calmly, “ on account of me. But not 
on account of anything I can help. Therefore, I 
come to you—for Barker’s sake.” 

Amos Hazelton dismissed the idea that she was 
a self-conscious chit, posing for effect, and realized 
her deep earnestness. 

“ Tell me,” he said, with more kindness in his 
voice than he had hitherto shown. 

12 


’o 


178 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Well, those addle-pated detectives have come 
to the conclusion that I killed Mr. Lawrence and 
Mrs. Sayre—” 

“ You! ” Amos could not repress the horrified 
exclamation. 

“ Yes, don’t bother now about their reasons, 
they’re utterly foolish ones, about psychology and 
such things. Now, Mr. Hazelton, I didn’t kill them.” 

She shook her head slowly, and spread her pinky 
palms up toward him as if in utter disavowal. 

“No, I know it,” he returned with the same 
unconscious gravity. 

“ But they won’t believe I didn’t, and so Barker 
thought it his duty to go to them and say he did 
it—to shield me, you see.” 

“Confessed, did he?” 

“ Yes; he’ll tell you all this when he sees you, 
but I wanted to get in my oar first. Now they won’t 
believe him, and he vows he’ll give them proof that 
they’ll have to believe! Oh, what a dear, foolish 
thing he is, isn’t he Mr. Hazelton? ” 

Her head went to one side, and her eyes had a 
faraway look, as an expression of almost maternal 
love stole over her face. 

“ We have to take care of him, you and I, while 
his mother is away,” she smiled, but through ris¬ 
ing tears. 


EVIDENCE 


179 


“ Well, I must get busy,” she dashed the back 
of her hand across her eyes. “ Now, I’ve thought it 
all out, and there’s only one thing to do—” 

“ Find the real murderer.” 

A lovely light came into her eyes. 

“ Oh! why, you dear thing! How quick you are 
on the uptake! ” Her smile was dazzling, and Amos 
Hazelton almost surrendered to her entirely. 

But he was really a hard-headed man, and, inci¬ 
dentally, a hard-hearted one, and he reserved 
decision. 

Gladys sensed all this, but went bravely on; “ you 
don’t have to like me, that isn’t in the bond, but you 
must protect Barker—from himself—and—from 
me.” The last accompanied by a bit of a roguish 
smile. 

Amos looked at her with a face devoid of expres¬ 
sion, and she struggled on. 

“ The detectives or police or whatever they call 
them, are getting nowhere,” she announced. “ They 
have not gone forward one step—except missteps— 
since they started. Now, sir, you must get some¬ 
body that can find that murderer.” 

“ My friend, Mr. Stanhope is a pretty good 
sleuth—” 

“ Only as an amateur,” the little hands came 
together and clasped in appeal. “Please, please, Mr. 


180 THE FURTHEST FURY 

Hazelton, get a good one, a big one. Get Fleming 
Stone!” 

The last words were in a scared whisper. 

“Stone? What do you know of him?” 

“ He’s the man Mr. Stanhope wants—” 

“ Stanhope does. Oh, he’s too modest. He can 
ferret out—” 

“ No, he can’t! ” She had risen now, and stamped 
her little foot in emphasis. “ I know he can’t and 
he knows it. And Bark knows it. And the man 
they both want is this Stone person! And they say 
you won’t have him—you’ll say he’s too expensive 
and it’s unnecessary, and you’ll be obstinate and pig- 
headed—and the beans will all be spilled and the fat 
in the fire!” 

She was sobbing now, but bravely trying and 
fairly well succeeding in stopping her tears. 

“ Those aren’t my words, you understand—it’s 
just what Barker and Mr. Stanhope said—” 

" Ah, just which one said I was pig-headed? ” 

“ Why, why—I guess I slipped that in myself.” 

And at this Amos Hazelton laughed outright. 

Bark said it,” he declared, with conviction. 
“Well, Miss Lee, you came up here to enlist my 
sympathy toward the question of having the Stone 
man take up the matter? ” 

“ Yes,” the little face was very grave; “ but don’t 
speak like that. You don’t know how serious it is. 


EVIDENCE 


181 


If—if Barker sets out to convince those men that he 
killed those people, he’ll do it. And I c-can’t con¬ 
vince them that I did it, because I didn’t.” 

“ But Barker didn’t either—” 

“I know, but he’s cleverer than I am, and he 
can make them think he did! ” 

“ Sounds like rubbish to me—” 

“ But it isn’t, Mr. Hazelton, you don’t know how 
determined they are to find one of us guilty. You 
don’t know how crazy they are about that psycho 
business, and you don’t know how—er, pig-headed 
Bark is in the matter of clearing me.” 

“ Um—he takes after his father—” 

The appreciative smile this brought forth, just 
about completed Hazelton’s capitulation to this brave 
little soul. 

“ Miss Lee—Gladys,” he said, and his voice was 
gentle, “ you have succeeded in your mission. I 
understand far more than you think I do. I see the 
situation, and—a great deal more beside. You have 
shown a fine spirit, and a beautiful nature. And I 
promise you I shall engage the services of this man 
Stone, if it is possible to do so. 

“Also, I want you to know, that I have come 
to this decision because of what you have told me. 
If you had not come here, and my son and my friend 
had come and asked me to get this man—I should 
have said no—and with my pig-headedness, I prob- 



182 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


ably should have stuck to it. Now, I shall agree 
to it, and I shall put it through as soon as I can. You 
have made me realize the danger you two innocent 
young people are in, and you have made me see that an 
amateur detective can never discover the real solu¬ 
tion of this dreadful mystery. Run along home, now 
—you have done your part, and you have done it 
excellently well.” 

With her true instinct of the fitness of things, 
Gladys left him without another word; as she told 
Barker afterward, she just stippled off, leaving Amos 
Hazelton already deep in thought. 

And when Barker and Stanhope arrived they 
found him alert and eager to hear all they had to 
tell him, and to tell them his own family news. 

They had reached the end of the story of the 
threatened arrest of Gladys and the faked confession 
of Barker, and they had told of Stanhope’s plea that 
the matter might be held in abeyance for a few days. 

“ Cas e of misguided energy, that accusation of 
the little girl, isn’t it?” Amos said; “Mr. Lewis 
seems to be educated beyond his intelligence. And, 
Barker, while you’re the stuff heroes are made of, 
you’re not quite baked yet. Well, if you ask me, I 
suggest that we call in Fleming Stone.” 

His two auditors stared at him. 


CHAPTER XI 

FLEMING STONE 

And so Fleming Stone came. He arrived at 
Hazel Hill on an afternoon train and was enchanted 
with the beauty of the place and the surroundings. 
By mutual consent the matter in hand was not taken 
up until after dinner, when the four men gathered 
on a sheltered comer of the veranda and settled down 
for a confab. 

Stone was a good looking, well set up man of 
middle age. His calm face, framed in iron-gray hair 
gave an impression of force and capability. His 
deep-set dark eyes were quick and searching. And 
his whole manner was full of magnetism and charm. 
He compelled confidence by reason of his own quiet 
self-assurance that had in it no trace of arrogance. 

Barker Hazelton at once worshipped him as a 
hero, and the elder men felt the power of his fine and 
efficient mentality. 

“ Rather a different type of detective from that 
fat-headed Lewis/’ was Stanhope’s unspoken 
comment. 

Stone listened while the others gave him a full 
account of the case. He was exceedingly interested 

183 


184 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


as there were so many unusual, even unique cir¬ 
cumstances to be considered. 

“ Extraordinary,” he said, “a double murder, 
of people practically unknown, in a quiet little village! 
I think we shall find the motive a deep one, the 
criminal exceedingly clever and the solution ex¬ 
tremely difficult.” 

And his hearers knew at once that the last clause 
was not spoken in order that his own task might 
be exalted. 

“ Of course,” he went on, “ I wish I might have 
been here at the first. Clues, if there were any, must 
be destroyed by this time. But we won’t waste re¬ 
grets on that. As I see it now, I am most interested 
in those shoes. They seem to me the key to the 
puzzle. That is, if you are sure the heel prints are 
too sharp and clear to have been made by any shoes 
you can find.” 

“I’m sure of that,” said Stanhope. “ I made 
most careful examination on that point.” 

Have you found any recent shoe bills, or check 
stubs to a shoe dealer ? ” 

“ Haven’t looked, especially,” and Stanhope 
smiled ruefully; “ I thought I had a detective bent, 
but I fear I was mistaken.” 

“ You see >” A mos Hazelton put in, “ the case for 
the prosecution is a strange one. There are no 
relatives of the dead people who are crying for ven- 


FLEMING STONE 


185 


geance. There is no one to want the crime avenged, 
closer than friendly neighbors, and, of course, the 
state. I frankly admit that I should have taken no 
steps in the matter if they hadn’t pounced on my son 
and an innocent girl as suspects. But those two 
young people must be vindicated whether the real 
criminal is found or not.” 

“ The crime is far too grave, much too brutal, 
to have been done by young people,” Stone said, 
thoughtfully. “ Unless it was a burglar, which I 
doubt, that deed was done after long deliberation 
and preparation. As I see it, it was not an impulsive 
crime, but a premediated one. Tell me more of the 
general character of the brother and sister.” 

The others told him such bits of description as 
seemed illuminative, and Stanhope said: 

“ I spent some time looking over their books.” 

“ That,” Stone observed, “ is always indicative. 
What were they? ” 

“ Of the best. Mostly poetry, essays, and good 
fiction.” 

“ Not scientific or professional? ” 

“No. Almost all belles-lettres. Mr. Lawrence 
had in his bedroom, books of light verse, Austin 
Dobson and Wilfred Blunt and also Browning and 
Swinburne. Mrs. Sayre’s bedside books were Eliza¬ 
bethan lyrics and sonnets from the Portuguese. I 


186 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


noticed these in detail because I thought they pointed 
to a fine taste in literature/’ 

“ They point to more than that,” Stone said, 
sagaciously. “ Mr. Lawrence wrote stories ? ” 

“ Yes, and corking good ones,” Barker Hazel- 
ton declared. 

“ Has he been writing long? ” 

“ No, took it up about the time he came here to 
live. He said he wanted to be near New York as 
his publisher is there.” 

“ You mean editor ? He wrote for the Carnival?” 
“ Yes, I do mean editor. He has never had a 
book published. But I think he meant to collect his 
stories in book form when he had enough of them.” 
“ He never talked to you of his past life? ” 
“No,” said Barker, reflectively, “except once 
he referred to it indirectly. I was up in his bed¬ 
room—went up to see a picture he cherished—and 
I noticed that little figure. The one that was found 
broken. I didn’t know its value and casually admired 
it, when he launched forth in a detailed description 
of the things. It seems they are famous. Well, 
incidentally, he said, 4 it was one of my choicest 
possessions. This sounded queer and I said, ‘ isn’t 
it now ? ’ and he said, ‘ Now I only admire it for 
itself/ Strange, wasn’t it ? ” 

“ You’re sure you’ve narrated that faithfully? ” 
Stone asked, his eyes shining 1 . 

“ Sure.” 


FLEMING STONE 


18T 


“ Then that figurine is our best clue, so far. It 
is the only link with his life here and his life before 
he came here.” 

“ You look toward his past, then, for the solu¬ 
tion of the mystery? ” asked Amos Hazelton. 

“ I do, so far as I can judge at this early stage. 
Yet that may not be right. I’m keen to get down 
and see the house, and look over the rooms. No 
one could live in a home two years or more and 
not leave footprints on the sands of time.” 

“ As well as on the flower-bed,” smiled Stanhope. 

“ Those are extraordinary,” said Stone, frowning 
thoughtfully. “ You know, footprints on a flower¬ 
bed are among the most hackneyed clues of detective 
fiction. At first glance, one can’t help thinking those 
footprints were put there on purpose.” 

“ That somebody wore Mr. Lawrence’s shoes! ” 

“ We don’t know that they were Mr. Lawrence’s 
shoes.” 

“ Well, just working out that idea,” Stanhope 
said, “ whose shoes could they have been, who could 
have worn them, and why? ” 

“ Those questions answered,” Stone said, smil¬ 
ing, “we have the whole solution of the mystery. 
At present, I can answer none of them. That’s why 
I said those shoes are the chief key to the puzzle. 
Find those and you have your man.” 


188 


THE FURTHEST FUHY 


“ What about Miss Busby’s queer man ? ” Stan¬ 
hope said. 

“ The trouble with testimony from chattering 
women is that they are so prone to exaggerate.” 
Stone looked up apologetically. “ Not that I mean 
anything invidious. But while women are valuable 
witnesses as to their quick wit and ready intuition, 
their narratives are apt to be colored and distorted. 
If I question a woman witness, I gather more from 
what she doesn’t say than from what she does.” 

“ There isn’t anything Lizzie Busby doesn’t say! ” 
Barker put in, dryly. “ She says it all.” 

“ She must be an amusing character,” Stone re¬ 
marked, “ also that Emma Lily. Delightful name! ” 

“ But as to the queer man,” Stanhope persisted. 
“ She never made up that yam entirely. She isn’t 
as visionary as all that.” 

“ He may have been the murderer,” Stone con¬ 
ceded. “ A big head, you say? ” 

“ So she described him. And there’s White- 
Face.” 

Stanhope recounted in detail all he knew of 
Taylor. 

“ Sounds interesting,” Stone said, “ but as Fraser 
knows him, there’s no real reason to look that way. 
You say he didn’t recognize the dead people? ” 

“ He said he didn’t,” returned Stanhope, and 
Stone gave him a quick look. 

“ You distrust his sincerity? ” 


FLEMING STONE 


189 


“ Oh, only because he’s such a strange acting 
chap. He turns up at unexpected times, and he has 
a prowling, furtive air—” 

“ Has he a big head? ” 

“ No, and he’s not a big man. Miss Busby’s 
prowler was big and tall.” 

“ Don’t bank on that description. The witching 
hour and the moonlight may have exaggerated the 
effect of the man and of his head.” 

“You’ll interview her yourself, of course?” 
asked Amos. 

“ Oh, yes. And, here’s another thing. Much 
as I enjoy this luxurious home of yours, much as 
I’d like to be here with you all, I feel I can do far 
better work nearer the scene of the crime. So I 
think I shall have to take up my abode at Gray 
Porches. It can be managed, I suppose? I’ll come 
up here often to report progress and to have a res¬ 
pite from the other boarders. And, the engaging 
Emma Lily is there, I understand.” 

“Yes, she went into service with Mrs. Gray, 
who was very glad to get her.” This from Stan¬ 
hope. “ So you’ll have her under your eye and Miss 
Busby is next door—you’re interested in her ? ” 

“ Very much,” Stone replied. “ And in your 
white-faced man, though he may be in no way con¬ 
nected with it all. But I am not interested—that is, 
as a detective—in this young man,” he smiled at 


190 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Barker, “ or in the little girl you tell me about. Any 
one suspecting them of that deed is crazy himself! 
And I suspect that Lewis is a little unbalanced. The 
most dangerous thing for a detective to do is to 
try to use psycho-analytic methods, when his knowl¬ 
edge of that very abstruse science is merely smatter¬ 
ing. But he is a menace, and I shall take pleasure in 
spiking his guns, and then addressing myself to the 
greater task of finding the murderer of those people. 
It is, so far, the strangest case I have ever met with, 
and though I can’t help forming a theory, it is only 
theory as yet, and I shall quickly abandon it unless it is 
borne out by incontrovertible evidence.” 

“ I say, Mr. Stone,” Barker’s boyish face was 
eager, “ won’t you write down your theory, and seal 
it up, and then—” 

“ Then,” Stone laughed, “ then if it is right I 
can triumph, and if it isn’t, you can have the laugh 
on me! Well, I’m willing, on condition that my 
note is held inviolate until I have finished with the 
case, and also that I am accorded the privilege of re¬ 
canting at any time. For I’ve stated it is mere theory, 
which the first glance into Woodbine cottage may 
prove utterly untenable.” 

“ based on what you’ve heard here to-night? ” 
asked Stanhope. 

Entirely. That is, on what I’ve heard and what 
that has led me to surmise. Now I’m quite willing 


FLEMING STONE 191 

to put it on record, and Mr. Hazelton will keep it 
for us.” 

They went into the house, and Stone gravely 
wrote a few lines on the paper Barker provided, as 
gravely sealed it in an envelope, with sealing wax, 
and handed it over to Amos Hazelton, who put it 
at once in his safe. 

“ Don’t tell anybody about it,” said Stone, “ for 
your local detectives might burgle the safe and steal 
my thunder.” 

They promised this, and then after some more 
desultory chat about the matter they all went to bed. 

Next day found Fleming Stone most comfortably 
quartered at Gray Porches. The house was full, 
as always, but Mrs. Gray let him have her room 
for a few days, after which he was to have Mrs. 
Trent’s room, as that lady was leaving at the end 
of the week. 

The detective himself would have said that his 
quarters were comfortable, when he could get into 
them. But he was an object of such interest to the 
other boarders that he was waylaid by them whenever 
he appeared. 

They stopped him in the halls or on the porches, 
they even swarmed to his table at meal times. They 
were everlastingly questioning, commenting, even 
advising him. 

But Stone was a good-natured man, and a good 


192 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


mixer, and, too, he was not without hope that he 
glean some information from this flood of chatter. 

Especially he talked to the matrons, avoiding the 
young girls and old maids whenever possible. 

Naturally, Mrs. Endicott and Mrs. Trent monopo¬ 
lized him, and he seemed willing enough to be lionized 
by them. 

But when he went over to look at the Woodbine 
cottage, he had to be almost stern in his orders that 
nobody should accompany him. 

He had procured the keys from Fraser, who met 
his request for them with an ill grace. Fraser resented 
the intrusion of this celebrated detective, and he didn’t 
care who knew it. 

Lewis, on the other hand, though chagrined at 
being set aside, was so eager to see Stone at work, 
that he welcomed the expert. Moreover, Lewis had 
come to the conclusion that his suspicion of Gladys 
Lee was rather absurd, and he wanted now, of all 
things, to work with Stone. 

So, Stone had no sooner entered the cottage than 
Lewis appeared. He introduced himself and stated 
frankly his desire to help, or at least, to look on. 

“ I’m not going to do any miracles/’ Stone 
laughed; “I’m only going to look the house over, 
.which of course, you have already done.” 

“ Yes > sir >” said Lewis, looking at him as a little 
dog might look at a big one. And then he trotted 


FLEMING STONE 193 

behind the great detective in his rapid trip through 
the house. 

Stone methodically began at the top, and going 
first to the attic glanced appraisingly about. 

It was a pleasant enough place, tidy and orderly, 
with some odd bits of furniture and a few trunks 
neatly stored. 

Stone’s quick, roving glance took it all in, and 
once or twice he nodded, and again he frowned. 

“See anything of importance, sir?” Lewis 
asked, eagerly. 

“ I see only what you see,” Stone smiled at him. 
“ Let’s look in the trunks.” 

They opened them, together. Some were empty, 
some held winter clothing and one was full of books. 
Glancing at these, Stone saw they were mostly archi¬ 
tectural works, of more or less value. 

“ Just a general storehouse,” he said, as he gave 
a last glance around and started down stairs. 

On the second floor, he went first to Nevin Law¬ 
rence’s room. It had been put in order, and the 
bed made properly, but Stone’s attention was on the 
furnishings and decorations. He nodded with satis¬ 
faction at the window curtains and he smiled as he 
looked at the armchairs covered with flowered chintz. 

Lewis fairly squirmed with curiosity as he 
watched the detective’s face, but he knew it was of 
no use to ask questions. 

13 



194 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


In Lawrence’s bathroom, Stone lingered a few 
moments as he gazed about. It was in beautiful 
order, and of plain but immaculate appointments. 

He sighed and went across the hall to 
Mrs. Sayre’s room. 

His face was sorrowful as he looked about the 
pretty place. Everything betokened the cherished 
abode of a cultured and beauty-loving woman. 

The soft carpet harmonized with the coloring of 
the hangings; the easy chairs were done in matching 
chintz, and the lace scarves and lingerie pillows here 
and there, made the room a boudoir as well as a 
bedroom. 

“ A dainty little person arranged this room,” 
Stone said, pleasantly, as he scrutinized the table, 
with its books, bonbonniere, cigarette tray and flower 
vase. 

Then he studied the toilet table, with its ex¬ 
quisite appointments, and went on to the bathroom, 
which was as well done as the other but with addi¬ 
tional feminine luxuries. 

“ Were these people rich? ” he asked, suddenly, 
and Lewis replied, “ not quite that, but they were 
comfortably off. They rented this house, you see, 
but all the fancy flumadiddles Mrs. Sayre put in 
herself.” 

Stone returned to the bedroom and asked to be 
shown the exact spot where the body had lain. 


FLEMING STONE 


195 


This he regarded silently for some time, and 
then said: 

“ What was it about her outstretched arms ? ” 

“ That’s Emma Lily’s yarn,” Lewis returned. 
“ I don’t put too much faith in it. She says, when 
she found Mrs. Sayre, she was stretching out her 
hands for the pearl pin the burglar stole.” 

“ Vivid imagination on the part of Emma Lily,” 
Stone commented. “You don’t think she appro¬ 
priated that pin, do you? ” 

“ No, / don’t—but some folks do.” 

“ Oh, well, I’ll find that out. Let’s go down¬ 
stairs.” 

The living room and library were next the objec¬ 
tive points, and then Stone went on to the dining¬ 
room and kitchen. But these didn’t keep him long, 
and after a brief glance out of the back door, he 
announced his investigation finished. 

“ Find anything? ” asked Lewis, hoping a casual 
inquiry would elicit more than an evident desire 
for information. 

“ Lots,” said Stone, succinctly; “ but I saw only 
what you’ve already seen. I’ve no magic glasses. 
Now for the interesting Miss Busby.” 

“ Mind if I go along? ” 

“ Well, yes, I do mind. I’d rather you wouldn’t, 
and I’ll tell you why. It’s because Miss Busby may 
say something to me alone, that she wouldn’t say if 


196 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


you were there. This is improbable, I admit, but, 
as a detective, you must see that it’s possible.” 

Thus appealed to, as a fellow of the craft, Lewis 
had to agree, and Stone whisked over to the Busy¬ 
body’s house alone. 

She was none too willing to talk, he soon dis¬ 
covered, and he wondered why. She had been repre¬ 
sented to him as a chatterbox, but, on the contrary, she 
was almost mute. 

Partly from her curt replies and partly by his 
own intuition, Stone at last divined she had a secret 
to conceal and she was afraid this all-wise detective 
would get it out of her. 

So, determining to get it out of somebody else, 
he said, in a business-like way: 

“ There’s only one thing I want from you, Miss 
Busby, and that’s a careful description of the queer 
man you saw that night.” 

As he had surmised, she thawed at this, and 
seemed willing to tell the tale. It was substantially 
as he had heard it from others, but he realized that 
it had gained a little as it passed through several 
mouths. 

The tall man had grown taller, the big head had 
grown bigger, as the story was passed from one to 
another, but Stone had discounted this. It always 
happened. 

“ Still, you thought him queer? ” he finished. 


FLEMING STONE 


197 


“ Why, yes—that is, he acted queer—afraid— 
uncertain—that’s the best I can describe it.” 

“ And a good description, too. Now, you saw 
him pull his hat down over that big head? ” 

“ Oh, his head wasn’t so awful big. It might ’a 
been his hat was too small.” 

“ Probably not his own hat—part of his dis¬ 
guise—” 

“ Well, anyway, he pulled it down on his head 
this way—” and with both hands Miss Busby pulled 
an imaginary hat down hard over her ears. 

“ I wouldn’t make such a point of that, sir, only 
that’s all I saw him do. The moon went under a 
cloud then, and the sudden dark seemed as black as 
Egypt. And when it lightened up a little, he was 
gone.” 

“ Now, Miss Busby, you’re sure of all this? ” 

“ Positive. He stood just where they found 
those footprints the next morning.” 

“ I see. I suppose you can give no further de¬ 
scription than rather tall, pretty big, long coat, slouch 
hat, pulled down, and a furtive, fearful air? ” 

“ That’s just him! And I can’t tell you another 
word about him. I wish I could.” 

“ I wish so too, Miss Busby, for that was the 
murderer of those two people. Those shoes made 
footprints up the steps and into the house and were 
lost on the soft carpets. Yes, I know your local 


198 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


detectives found out all that—it remains for me only 
to discover the identity of the criminal.” 

Having achieved his purpose, Stone took his 
leave and went back to Gray Porches. Here, he in¬ 
vited Emma Lily to a shaded back porch, and began 
his interview with her. 

“ Now, Emma Lily,” he said, rather sternly, “ I 
want to know the truth about your finding those 
bodies. Particularly about Mrs. Sayre. And I mean 
the whole truth. You know—about those out¬ 
stretched arms. Did you see that pearl stickpin? ” 

Emma Lily grew panicky. 

“ No,” she cried, “ I didn’t! I say / didn’t! No¬ 
body can prove I did—” 

“ Nobody can prove anything about that scene 
but yourself, Emma Lily. That’s why you must tell 
the truth. What was the poor lady reaching out for ? ” 

And then Fleming Stone had what he afterward 
said was the greatest surprise of his life. 

Looking cowed, but truthful, Emma Lily replied : 

“ Her wedding ring, sir.” 

" What? ” 

“ Just that, I say, just that. I’ll tell now-—I’d 
ruther. If I’m going to be suspected of stealing 
pearls, I’d prefer to tell the truth. And I didn’t mean 
no harm keepin’ it back, I say, I didn’t 
no harm.” 


mean 


FLEMING STONE 


199 


“ And probably you did no harm,” said Stone, 
kindly. “ Tell me all about it.” 

“ Well, I—when I saw that poor lady all stretched 
out there—dead—I was just about distracted—I say, 
just about distracted.” 

“ You must have been,” Stone murmured, sym¬ 
pathetically. 

“ Yes, I was. And, bein’ distracted, my first 
thought was to lay her straight-wise. Then I remem¬ 
bered it wasn’t right to touch her—and I was lookin’ 
at her, when I noticed how she was a reachin’ out 
like for somethin’. And I looked, and I saw her 
wedding ring, the only ring she ever wore, lyin’ 
just beyond her fingers, like as if she had died try in’ 
to reach it. And I—I was distracted, you remember 
—I picked it up and I slipped it back on her finger. 
That’s what I did.” 

“ You did just right,” said Fleming Stone. 


CHAPTER XII 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 

The undertaker of the village of New Midian, 
Elisha Crouch, was a small, wizened man, well 
past middle age. He was soft of voice and manner 
as became his calling, and he had that air of deference 
which is also inseparable from the profession. 

His rooms were well appointed and the two show 
caskets were of fine quality. 

He greeted Fleming Stone and Dave Stanhope, 
when they came in, with a puzzled but hopeful air. 
Perhaps there was new business in sight. 

But Stone said, pleasantly, “Mr. Crouch? ” 
“Yes! ” “ I am Stone the detective, and I’m work¬ 
ing on the Lawrence case. Now, just one question I 
want you to answer—maybe two—and then I won’t 
detain you further.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Stone, certainly. Glad to do 
anything I can to help you. What is it, sir, what 
is it?” 

“ Only this. When preparing the body of Mrs. 
Sayre for burial, did you notice her rings?” 

“ Only one, sir—only one, Mr. Stone. A plain 
gold wedding ring.” 

“ How do you know it was a wedding ring? ” 

200 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


201 


“ Why—why—” the man looked a little embar¬ 
rassed, then quickly recovered his poise, “ why, sir, it 
was a plain gold band, and it was on the third finger 
of the lady’s left hand. Isn’t that enough, sir? Isn’t 
that sufficient ? ” 

“ Not quite, Mr. Crouch,” Stone was watching 
him narrowly, and saw his fingers move nervously, 
and his lips go dry. “ You know it was a wedding 
ring, because you removed it and looked inside. 
Admit it, Mr. Crouch, it was no crime.” 

“ I should say not! ” the undertaker seemed re¬ 
lieved to make a clean breast of it all; “ an under¬ 
taker is supposed to notice all such things. I did 
take the ring off the finger and I put it back again.” 

“ Yes,” Stone said, suavely, “ and what was 
inside ? ” 

“ Oh, just the usual thing, two sets of initials, 
and from and to.” 

“ Yes, of course, but what were the initials? ” 

“Well, sir, I don’t remember exactly. I sup¬ 
pose—” 

“ Come now, none of that! ” Stone looked severe. 
“You had a right to look into the ring, and now it 
is your duty to tell what you saw there.” 

Crouch turned obstinate. “ I tell you I don’t 
remember the letters,” he said; “ if you must know, 
exhume the body and find out.” 

“ It will be wiser, Mr. Crouch, to tell us,” Stone 


202 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


said, quietly. “ I ask it in the name of the law, in 
the name of justice; and if you persist in refusing to 
tell, you may find yourself in an unpleasant position.” 

“ Tell it out, Crouch,” Stanhope advised. He 
had known the undertaker for years, and he knew 
him for an obstinate man, but amenable to reason. 

44 You don’t want to be arrested for contempt—” 

44 Oh, I’ll tell,” was the hasty rejoinder. 44 Why, 
I was surprised, because they didn’t seem to be Mrs. 
Sayre’s initials. But it was none of my business, 
so I never said anything about it to anybody.” 

44 What were the initials?” Stone urged, im¬ 
patiently. 

“ It said, 4 E. R. from J. T.’ ” said the under¬ 
taker, slowly. 44 Now Mrs. Sayre was J. S.” 

44 It would be her maiden name, you see, ” Stone 
pointed out. 44 And though E doesn’t stand for 
Janet, yet you never can tell about a woman’s name. 
Sometimes they use a middle name and discard a first 
name entirely.” 

44 But,” put in Stanhope, 44 what about the other 
name? J. T. can’t stand for a husband named Sayre.” 

44 No,” said Stone, absently. 44 It certainly can’t. 
But as I say, inscriptions in wedding rings are often 
unintelligible to any one but the contracting parties. 
I saw a wedding ring once, engraved, 4 To Birdie 
from Love Pie.’ Now, if that had been merely 
L. P. it would have been misleading! I mean to say 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


203 


J. T. may well stand for a nickname of Mrs, Sayre’s 
husband, known only to themselves. But the matter 
is extremely interesting, and I advise you, Mr. 
Crouch, to preserve the admirable silence you have 
kept on the subject. You did wisely in keeping the 
matter to yourself;” 

“ Yes, sir,” and the pleased Crouch smiled. “ I 
says to myself, it could do no good for the police 
to know it, for they might think there was something 
crooked about the lady, and a more lovely woman 
than Mrs. Sayre it has never been my luck to meet.” 

“And Mr. Lawrence? He wore a ring, I am 
told.” 

“ He did, sir. Set with a stone they call a cats- 
eye. But he had grown stouter, it seems, since he 
began to wear it, and I couldn’t get it off. No, sir, 
not with vaseline, or any way. I didn’t see any rea¬ 
son for filing it off, so I left it stay on. Was I right 
sir ? You know there are no heirs that we know of.” 

“ Well, it wasn’t your business to take any in¬ 
itiative,” Stone assured him. “If they gave you the 
bodies to attend to, it was up to you to leave the 
rings as you found them.” 

“ Yes, sir—that’s what I thought, sir.” 

“ It’s all a very strange case,” Stone said, mus¬ 
ingly. “You found no distinguishing marks of any 
sort on the bodies ? ” 

“ None, of any consequence. A small mole on 


204 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


the lady’s shoulder and a little scar on Mr. Lawrence’s 
ankle—that’s about all.” 

“ They might be useful to some one who knew 
them well,” Stone responded, absently, “ but no one 
seems to be trying to establish their identities. That’s 
what makes the case so very peculiar. It would seem 
as if somebody must come forward. The case is in 
all the papers, all over the country.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Crouch, deeply interested in his 
visitor, yet disappointed that this great detective 
could not say, hot off the bat, who these people were 
and where they came from. 

“ Perhaps Mr. Lawrence was buried in those shoes 
we are searching for,” said Stone, suddenly. “ Do 
you know, Mr. Crouch ? ” 

“ I know he wasn’t,” said the undertaker, de¬ 
cidedly. “ Mr. and Mrs. Gray, they picked out the 
clothes for the funeral, and the shoes I put on Mr. 
Lawrence didn’t have rubber heels at all.” 

“Nor had rubber heels been removed 
from them? ” 

“ No, sir, they never had any. They were fine 
black dress shoes, Mr. Stone.” 

His errand done, Stone went away, and walked 
along the village sidewalk without a word to Stan¬ 
hope for several minutes. 

Then he said, “ I don’t mind telling you, Stan¬ 
hope, that this is the very strangest case I ever came 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


205 


across. It is so strange, so incredible even, that I 
think its very strangeness will help toward its 
solution.” 

“ You're going to solve it, then? ” 

“ Sure, if it's within the bounds of possibility. 
And I think it is. 

“ That wedding ring matter is most important. I 
let that man think it wasn’t. But it is. Hello, here 
comes friend Lewis.” 

Lewis was still impressed by the presence of the 
celebrated detective, but he was not quite so much 
in awe of him as at first, and he said jocularly, “ well, 
Mr. Sleuth, found any clues? ” 

“ The shoes—the shoes —” and Stone leaned for¬ 
ward with an exaggerated air of cryptic mystery. 

His deep-set dark eyes glared into Lewis’ face 
and made that worthy jump back quickly. 

Stone smiled. “ Get it out of your head,” he 
said, that I am a wizard, or a dabbler in the black 
arts. I’m merely a reasoning detective, looking for 
evidence.” 

“And you think those missing shoes are the 
clue? ” 

“ The clue, the whole clue and nothing but the 
clue,” Stone said, oracularly. 

The three were standing now, at the corner of 
the main road and the street that led to Woodbine 
cottage. Stone was thinking deeply, and paying 


206 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


little attention to the presence of the other two. His 
eyes were dark and somber, his facial muscles drawn 
and tense in the sudden rush of inevitable conclusions 
that had come to him. 

Was he right? he asked himself; could he be 
right? Yet, how could he be wrong? 

Lewis saw the evidence of these portentous 
thoughts on his face, and said to him, banteringly, 
“ look here, Mr. Stone, I’ve read of transcendant 
detectives who can deduce the personality of a crim¬ 
inal from a hat or a shoe, but I believe you could 
reconstruct our murderer from a pair of missing 
shoes.” 

“ I can,” said Stone, gazing at him calmly. 

Lewis gasped; “ and was it the man Miss Busby 
(saw looking in at the window ? ” 

“ It was.” 

“ You know him? ” 

“ I didn’t say that; I said I could reconstruct the 
personality. The personality is five feet, seven inches 
tall; weighs one hundred and sixty pounds, and is 
active and energetic. Of a passionate and vindictive 
temperament, yet shrewd, cool and calculating. Of 
wonderful efficiency, and of an uncanny shrewdness. 
Of indomitable will and courage, absolutely and en¬ 
tirely cold-blooded, and diabolically clever.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Lewis, who had listened at¬ 
tentively, “that sounds impressive, rattled off like 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


207 


that, but, after all, it’s pretty much the description 
Miss Busby gave of the queer man she saw, with 
the added assumption of those mental qualities/'’ 

“ Oh, yes,” Stone said, “ but you see, Miss Busby 
mistook the personality in one important respect— 
it was not a man but a woman.” 

“ What! ” Lewis’ jaw fell, and Dave Stanhope, 
too, presented an appearance of utter bewilderment. 

“ You heard me,” and now Stone dropped his 
half whimsical air and turned grave and stern. “ I 
tell you, this, Mr. Lewis, because I want your help 
in finding that woman. But I want you to tell no 
one else, for a short time, at least. Not even Fraser, 
at present. If we divulge it, we may frighten our 
quarry away.” 

Flattered at this mark of confidence from Stone, 
Lewis readily promised both secrecy and obedience 
to orders. 

“ I’d like you,” Stone said, slowly, as if think¬ 
ing aloud, “ to go down to New York and interview 
the editor of that paper—the Carnival —and, inci¬ 
dentally, ask him if Mr. Lawrence wrote for any 
other papers. Get from him all he knows about 
Nevin Lawrence—every little thing. He may tell 
more in a personal interview than he did over the 
telephone. Then, get from him copies of all his 
magazines that contain stories by Lawrence. Bring 
them home and read them yourself, and note any 


208 THE FURTHEST FURY 

that have in them a reference to those little Tana- 
gra figures.” 

“ There’s such a reference in the current one,” 
Stanhope said, eagerly. “ I read it a few days ago.” 

“ Must be some such reference in an earlier 
story,” Stone mused. “ Anyway, Lewis, find out, 
and let me know as soon as possible.” 

“ All right, Mr. Stone, I’ll get off at once,” and 
full of importance, Lewis went away. 

“ Queer man,” said Stone, looking after him, “ at 
first he resented my interference in the case, now 
he’s ready to eat out of my hand.” 

“ He realizes your powers,” said Stanhope, sin¬ 
cerely. “ But what do you mean by saying the 
murderer is a woman?” 

“ Partly evidence, and partly—a leap in the dark. 
For one thing Mrs. Sayre wouldn’t be apt to put 
up such a desperate fight with a man. He’d over¬ 
power her at once. She was not a large or strong 
woman, as you know, she was backed against the 
door, fighting, and fell to the floor, still in vigorous 
resistance, apparently. Oh, if I could have seen that 
room at first, while she still lay there, what a lot 
it would have told! ” 

“ I saw it,” Stanhope looked chagrined to think 
how little of evidence he had seen. “ She did die 
fighting, of that I am sure. And, good heavens, 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


209 


Stone, I did find something—something I totally for¬ 
got, till this minute! ” 

Fleming Stone gave him a short look, much like 
that a bridge player gives to a partner who revokes, 
and awaited further disclosures. 

“ I believe I have it with me,” and Stanhope 
pulled out a fair-sized pocketbook. 

“ Do you mean to say,” Stone couldn’t refrain, 
“ that you picked up something in that room and 
forgot it ? ” 

“ Just that,” Stanhope looked uneasy, “ but I 
don’t believe it amounts to anything. You see, I 
thought I saw a cobweb on the carpet, and I brushed 
it up in my hand almost automatically, and I found 
it was a piece of lace or something, and I stuck it in 
an old letter—here it is.” 

Stanhope produced the flimsiest bit of cobwebby 
mesh and offered it. 

Taking it carefully between his thumb and fore¬ 
finger, Stone spread out the elusive thing, and said: 

“ Why this is a hair net—the sort women wear 
to keep their crimps in order.” 

“ Then it was a woman-to-woman fight, and the 
intruder snatched this off of Mrs. Sayre’s head! ” 
Stanhope cried, excitedly. “ See, it’s torn! ” 

Stone studied the fine-meshed net. 

“ They are very frail,” he said, “ and it may 
have already been torn or it may have been torn in 

14 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


210 

a struggle. But it certainly corroborates my idea 
of a woman—” 

“ Yet, if a man, the net might have fallen from 
Mrs. Sayre’s head just the same,” Stanhope objected. 

“ Let’s go to see Emma Lily,” Stone decreed and 
they went. 

Demanding a private interview, Stone asked 
Emma Lily to go over to Woodbine with him, and 
all three went over. 

“ Now, Emma Lily,” and Stone intimidated her 
with one of his most severe glances, “ tell the exact 
truth, for if you don’t you’ll find yourself in serious 
difficulties. Did Mrs. Sayre wear a hair net, ever? ” 

“ Yes, sir—not always—but only after she’d just 
had her hair washed.” 

“ Who washed it, usually? ” 

“ I did, sir. Beautiful hair, it was,” Emma Lily 
burst into sobs at the thought. 

“ Control yourself now,” Stone said, inexorably, 
“ and have your cry afterward.” 

“ Yes sir,” and the woman obediently wiped her 
eyes and contented herself with an occasional sniffle. 

“ Had you washed Mrs. Sayre’s hair shortly be¬ 
fore her death? ” 

“No, sir—more like a week or ten days before 
—yes, say a week or ten days.” 

“ Would she then need a hair net to keep it 
in order? ” 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


211 


Emma Lily looked wonderingly at him. “ Why, 
no,” she said, “ no, she wouldn’t.” 

“ Then how did it happen that she was wearing 
a hair net when she died? ” 

“ Land sakes, sir, she wasn’t—I say, she wasn't” 
“ How do you know ? ” 

“ Why, she was in her nightdress—she had gone 
to bed. She wouldn’t wear one to bed! ” 

“ Are you sure? ” 

“Of course, I’m sure! Nobody would wear a 
hair net to bed—” 

“ Not to keep in crimping pins, or something 
like that? ” 

Emma Lily gave him a contemptuous glance. 

“ Much good a hair net’d be for that! She’d 
take a piece of lace or net. But Mrs. Sayre didn’t 
use crimping pins—she had a permanent.” 

“ Yes, I know what you mean,” said Stone, 
quickly. He was a little chagrined at his ignorance 
regarding hair nets, which were really outside his 
experience, but a permanent he had heard of. “ Now, 
look at this,” he produced the net, “can you tell 
if this belonged to Mrs. Sayre? ” 

Emma Lily took the net in her hands, and at once 
said, “ that hers? not by any manner of means! ” 

“ How can you be so sure ? ” 

Emma Lily shook her head, as if such crass igno¬ 
rance were unbelievable. 


212 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ You poor fish,” she said, carried beyond bounds 
of decorum by her scorn, “ that’s a gray net—Mrs. 
Sayre’s hair was very dark brown—” 

“ Oh,” cried Stone, willing to learn, “ they have 
them to match the hair, do they? ” 

“ Of course,” Emma Lily said, “you don’t sup¬ 
pose I’d wear a red one, do you? ” 

But Stone was oblivious to her sarcasm, his 
thoughts were racing wildly. This, then, was the hair 
net of the murdering woman, the criminal he was 
in search of! 

“ Emma Lily,” he said—he must work quickly 
now, before she was on her guard—“who was in love 
with Mr. Lawrence? Out with it, now,” as she hesi¬ 
tated, “ in the name of the law, tell me all 
you know! ” 

“ Oh, I can’t—I can’t—don’t ask me—I say, don’t 
ask me—” 

She threw her apron over her face, and burying 
her head in her arms rocked back and forth on her 
chair. 

Stone recognized a crisis. 

“ You must! ” he said, sternly, and grasped her 
arms, pulling her hands down from her face. “ It 
wasn’t you, Emma Lily, I know that—who was 
it? Mrs. Gray?” 

“ Land, no! ” she broke into hysterical laughter. 
“ Sarah Gray! why she thinks the sun rises and sets 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


213 


in that man of hers! Oh, I don’t know—I say, I 
don’t know—” 

“ Then I’ll tell you,” and Stone drew closer and 
whispered, “ Miss Busby? ” 

Emma Lily’s round black eyes snapped. 

“ How’d you know ? ” she gasped, for her simple 
nature couldn’t temporize. Surprise at Stone’s 
knowledge brought about her admission. 

“ Well, her hair isn’t gray,” he said, as if to 
himself. 

But Emma Lily, now started, broke in. 

“No, it ain’t but it’s that pale ash blonde, that 
won’t take anything but a gray net. The gray’s the 
best for hair like that.” 

Clearly this woman was a connoisseur in the 
matter of nets. 

It was like a spur to Stone’s already racing 
suspicions. 

“ Tell me all about it,” he commanded. “ Don’t 
fear you will do wrong—but know that you will do 
very wrong if you keep back a single word.” 

Thus adjured, the now thoroughly frightened 
woman began. 

“ Oh, sir, I don’t know what to say or where to 
begin—but Lizzie Busby was just gone on Mr. Law¬ 
rence. She thinks I don’t know it—but land! how 
could I help knowin’ it, and she a runnin’ over here 
every chance she could make—pretendin’ she came 


214 THE FURTHEST FURY 

to see me—oh—but she couldn’t have done the— 
the—” 

“ Don’t stop to say what she could or couldn’t 
do—” Stone thundered at her, “ go on! How do 
you know she cared for him? Give definite state¬ 
ments now! ” 

It was not Stone’s way to bully a woman, but 
he saw that in this instance it was his only chance 
for success. 

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Stanhope interrupted, 
“that first day, at the inquest, when Fraser asked 
Miss Busby about her visit over here that evening, 
she blushed and stammered—” 

“ Oh, did you see that, sir ? ” cried Emma Lily. 
“ I saw it too. And—well, I’ll tell all I know.” 
With a sudden air of determination, she straightened 
up and talked quickly, almost feverishly. Stone 
watched her closely, to make sure she was not carried 
away by her imagination, but as she went on, he 
felt positive she was truthfully intentioned. 

“ That night, Busybody came over here and sat 
on the back porch with me, a while. Then, Mrs. 
Sayre went off to the library, and quicker’n scat, 
Busybody jumps up and says she must run in to speak 
to Mr. Lawrence about some book or other. So in 
she goes, and—now, I ain’t no Paul Pry, but I sus- 
picioned she was goin’ to put it up to Mr. Lawrence 
—I dunno what made me think it—somethin’ in her 


A LEAP IN THE DARK 


215 


way o’ talkin,’ I guess, so—well—I passed by the 
livin’ room door—I say, I passed by the door— 
and—” Emma Lily’s face turned white, and her voice 
fell to a whisper, “ if that fool woman wasn’t makin’ 
love to Mr. Lawrence! Think of that! Him a fine, 
big author gentleman, and her a little old maid music 
teacher! You could’a knocked me down with a 
feather—I say you could’a—” 

“You’re sure of this?” asked Stone, gravely. 
“ What was she saying? ” 

“ I can’t tell you the words, but she was a dingin’ 
to his coat sleeve, and sayin’ how she loved him, 
and askin’ him to have pity on her—oh, my land! 
think of it I say, think of it! Her—her, with her 
silly old maid ways—oh my land! ” 

“ And Mr. Lawrence ? ” asked Stone, “ what 
did he say? ” 

“ He didn’t seem to have a chance to say anythin’ 
—she done the talkin’. But he looked like he didn’t 
know what hit him—poor man—and just then, Bark 
Hazelton come in, and Busybody scooted for home.” 

Stone concluded the interview briefly. He warned 
Emma Lily against repeating a single word of it, 
under pain of immediate arrest, his favorite threat, 
and he and Stanhope went back to Hazel Hill. 

Barker Hazelton, interviewed, hesitated to ex¬ 
press an opinion on Miss Busby’s behaviour. But 


216 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


convinced of the necessity, he told of finding her 
there when he arrived. 

“ That is,” he explained, “ when I came up on 
the veranda, I saw her inside, on her knees to Law- 
ence, begging him to love her. I hate to tell this 
about any woman, but as you demand it, Mr. Stone, 
there’s the story. Mr. Lawrence was evidently 
greatly disturbed at the scene, and was, I’m quite 
sure glad that my appearance put an end to it. I 
think he felt a certain pity for the woman, and didn’t 
want to be too harsh with her. But the look of utter 
scorn and disgust on his face was unmistakable. She 
saw it, and she was infuriated—I could see that, 
though, as I say, as soon as she caught sight of me, 
she ran off. Why, you don’t think poor old Busy¬ 
body killed him, do you? ” 

“ Hard to say, yet, Barker,” Stone answered, 
“ but there is evidence that needs clearing up. And, 
you know, ‘ Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ 
as the poet puts it. Now this deed, to me, seems 
the work of the furthest fury. It looks not only 
like revenge, but furious revenge.” 

“ And does it tally with the theory you wrote 
out and put in dad’s safe? ” asked Barker. 

“ There’s the rub,” Stone said, ruefully, “ it does 
in part, but not as a whole.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE NET 

“The Furthest Fury ” Amos Hazelton re¬ 
peated; “that’s an expressive phrase, Mr. Stone. And 
you think this crime the work of a woman—a woman 
scorned? ” 

“ I’m only saying there is evidence that seems to 
point that way,” Stone returned, smiling. “Pm not 
ready to commit myself to a statement, Mr. 
Hazelton.” 

“ And I don’t mean to be intrusive. But if you 
don’t mind, what is some of that evidence ? You see, 
Miss Busby saw a man—” 

“That’s just it. Was that a man? Now, I’ve 
examined those footprints very carefully, and here’s 
one point as a starter. Wherever there are two deep, 
clear impressions side by side, as if made by some one 
standing, looking about, the prints are close together. 
As you know, a man always stands with his feet 
fairly wide apart. A woman, dressed as a man keeps 
her feet closer together. Have you never seen a 
woman in man’s clothes? You will always see her 
sitting or standing, with her knees and her feet to¬ 
gether. A man always spreads his legs apart. Again, 
there is the matter of the big head. Might not that 

217 


218 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


mean a woman’s hair, tucked up under a man’s hat, 
which she pulls down hard, to make it stay on ? ” 

“ Clever! ” cried Stanhope, “ clever, if true. Can 
you prove it ? ” 

“ I’m not proving now,” Stone smiled. “ I’m 
merely theorizing, and I usually do that alone; but 
this time, since it interests you, we’ll talk it over to¬ 
gether. Then, there was the furtive air, not fear 
so much as embarrassment. Doesn’t it all seem to 
tally? ” 

“ And then the fight—” put in Barker. 

“ Yes,” agreed Stone, “ the fight that Mrs. Sayre 
quite evidently put up seems to connote a woman 
antagonist rather than a man. And, finally, the gray 
hair net, which it is quite plausible to assume Mrs. 
Sayre dragged from the head of her assailant. But I 
admit this is only theory. Can we substantiate it? ” 
“ No,” declared Barker, “ for this reason. You’re 
imagining this woman, this scorned woman to be 
Lizzie Busby. Now, it was she who saw the queer 
man. She couldn’t see herself! ” 

“ That’s the point of it,” Stone said, musingly. 
“ You see, assuming for a moment that it was Miss 
Busby, who, dressed as a man, went over there and 
stood beneath the window, and then went inside and 
committed the crime, would it not be a clever thing 
for her to describe having seen some one else at 
the window ? ” 


THE NET 


219 


“A little far-fetched,” Amos Hazelton said, 
thoughtfully. 

“ Not from a psychological viewpoint,” Stone 
returned. 

“ To assume this thing at all, we’ve got 
to admit Miss Busby a little unbalanced, a little 
‘ touched ’ as they call it, from her suppressed and 
unrequited love. There can be no doubt of her des¬ 
perate passion for Lawrence; it is attested by both 
Barker and Emma Lily. It evidently reached a 
climax that night just as Barker arrived, and she felt 
the lash of Lawrence’s scorn. This may have been 
the ignition of the flame of fury and revenge that 
flared up and seared her very soul—she thought only 
of revenge, furious revenge.” 

“ It may well have been,” Amos said, gravely. 
“ I’ve known poor old Busybody many years, and 
if ever there was a disappointed old maid, she’s one. 
I’ve known she admired Lawrence; indeed, it was 
common knowledge in the village. But nobody 
thought much about it; Busybody is a sort of public 
character, and nobody minds what she does. They’re 
usually busy enough setting straight the exaggerated 
gossip she has been circulating about them.” 

“ A real village pest, then?” Stone asked. 

“ Oh, they don’t put it that way. Everybody 
is tolerantly amused rather than annoyed at her 
vagaries. She never says anything really vicious, 


220 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


it’s more absurd exaggerations of little petty home 
matters. She’s a strange person.” 

“ Clever ? I mean ingenious ? ” 

“ Extremely so. My wife thinks she’s a witch! ” 
“ It all holds together,” Stone said, ruminatively. 
“ And yet—look here, people, I’m doing something 
that I almost never do! I’m thinking aloud, right 
before you all! It’s confidential, you know—” 
“Of course,” they chorused. 

“ And this may be an entirely wrong theory after 
all. But I have to follow it up and see. Much depends 
on that hair net—a most valuable clue. If it fell off, 
or Mrs, Sayre pulled it off the assassin’s head, of 
course that proves a woman.” 

“She must have pulled it off!” Barker cried, 
“ How else could it have been there ? Anyway, that 
gray net lets Gladys out! ” 

“ Let’s you out too,” Stone laughed shortly. 

“ Well, I must say, I usually know sooner and 
more surely which way to look, but this case is 
the most baffling I ever struck. At present, I’m 
pretty sure that man—that queer man, was a woman 
in man’s clothing—either Miss Busby herself or 
somebody else.” 

“ Unless it was entirely a figment of her own 
brain,” Amos interpolated. “ She has a vivid 
imagination.” 

“ I don’t believe she made up that yarn entirely,” 


THE NET 


221 


Stone said, “ it rings too true in its description. 
But it is quite on the cards that she described exactly 
the way she looked and felt, herself. The timid air, 
the pulled down hat, all would be part of her own 
attitude, and, as I say, no man stands with his feet 
close together. That may seem a small point to 
you, but I hold it important. However, I may be all 
wrong, and it may have been a man after all. I’ve 
no real evidence either way.” 

Stone looked anxious. As a matter of fact he 
always hated a case where he must suspect a woman, 
and he kept away from such a theory as long as possi¬ 
ble. But, too, he was a strong believer in the pas¬ 
sionate desire for revenge that lies deep in the 
feminine nature, and he well knew the terrible fury 
of a woman whose love was spurned. 

Feeling the need of direct confirmation or denial 
of his extraordinary theory, Stone went straight to 
Miss Busby’s house the next morning, and asked 
for an interview. 

The Busybody received him with cordiality, and 
invited him to sit on the porch. 

“ Inside, if you don’t mind,” and Stone stepped 
into the tidy little parlor. 

He carefully noted Miss Busby’s head. She 
had pale, ash-blonde hair, which, though it was 
really turning gray, showed it little, after the 
manner of that type of hair. 


222 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


But Stone’s quick eyes, scrutinizing sharply, dis¬ 
cerned a gray hair net, exactly like the one Stanhope 
had found. 

It was practically invisible, but, looking for it, 
he could just make out its indistinct meshes. 

“ Miss Busby,” the detective said, in his most 
ingratiating manner, “ I’m on a new tack in my 
investigations and I wonder if you can help me.” 

“ Glad to, if I can, sir,” and the Busybody bridled 
and smiled, almost disarming Stone’s suspicions. 

He went on warily, watching her every change 
of expression. 

“ That man you saw—that queer man, you know 
—could it not have been a woman in man’s clothes ? ” 

Lizzie Busby looked at him a moment, and then 
laughed shrilly and said: 

“A woman! Not much! You must be crazy! 
Why, I know it was a man—I’m sure of it—” 

“But that big head—it might have been a 
woman’s hair—” 

“Hair nothing! I suppose a man can have a 
big head—most of them have, anyway—” she laughed 
at her own joke. 

“But the footprints were close together—men 
always spread their feet apart—” 

“ I don’t care if he spread his feet, or if he 
stood on one leg, like any other goose, it was a 
man—and I know it! ” 

“ Would Mrs. Sayre have fought a man—” 


THE NET 


m 

“ She would have fought the devil himself! Janet 
Sayre was no coward. If anybody attacked her, she 
would fight like a trooper. I wasn’t one bit sur¬ 
prised to learn that she fought to the last—.” Miss 
Busby’s voice was quieter now, and she had tears in 
her eyes. 

This jarred Stone’s theory a little. 

“ And then, Miss Busby,” Stone prepared to 
play his trump card, “ granting that Mrs. Sayre 
fought so bravely, resisting the terrible attack, does 
it not indicate a woman, that this net was found 
under Mrs. Sayre’s body? ” 

With a sudden quick gesture, he pulled the gray 
hair net from his pocket and waved it before her eyes. 

He expected a scream or a horrified shrinking 
back, but to his disappointment, Miss Busby looked 
at the net without interest. 

“ Well, my good gracious! ” she remarked, dis¬ 
passionately, “if you detectives don’t beat all! I 
s’pose that’s what you call a clue! Why, that net 
might’a been there for weeks. Those things, they 
blow around a room, if say, a window’s open, and 
they stick to the carpet, so, you might sweep a dozen 
times and leave ’em lay there and never know it.” 

Even Stone’s acute ears could detect no faltering 
tone or uncertain inflection. To all appearances the 
woman’s careless indifference to the significance of 
his clue was perfectly sincere. If it were her net, 


224 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


she was either unconscious of its loss, or the most 
consummate actress he had ever seen. 

“ But would Mrs. Sayre have a gray net in her 
possession? ” 

“ Oh, you mean, ’cause her own hair wasn’t 
gray ? Why, it might’a been dropped there by some 
caller, I might’a dropped it myself—the things fly 
off awful easy. Or it might’a been off the head of 
some cleaning woman—” 

“ Oh, come now, Miss Busby, cleaning women 
don’t dress up in hair nets—” 

“Oh, don’t they? Why, Mrs. O’Rourke, she’s 
about the poorest of ’em in this village, and she’s the 
pernickettiest dresser of all. Real fussy, she is. Oh, 
don’t you go to bankin’ on that net. And anyway, 
that man I saw was a man! so there now! ” 

Stone drew a long breath and started afresh: 

“ Miss Busby,” he said, as calmly as if he were 
about to ask the most casual question, “ were you in 
love with Nevin Lawrence? ” 

If he was looking for an explosion, he got it. 
“ In love with Nevin Lawrence! ” she almost 
screamed. “Me! I should say not! In love with 
him! Why I wouldn’t have picked him up with 
the tongs! 

“ Love him ? That brute! That puppy! That 
scum of the earth! ” 

So now Stone knew she loved him. 


THE NET 


225 


“Was he really as bad as all that? ” he asked, 
sympathetically. 

“ Oh, he was! The mean, lying, despicable—” 

“ Come, come, now, Miss Busby, the man’s dead, 
don’t—” 

“ I will! ” she was screaming now. “ He treated 
me scandalous—just scandalous—” hysterical tears 
choked her speech. 

“ Was he scornful—” 

“ Scornful ain’t no word! He was contemptible 
—he was—he was mean—meaner’n pussley! ” 

The New Englander can go no further. Pussley 
is the last word in meanness, and having applied it 
to the late Nevin Lawrence, Miss Busby felt relieved. 

She also felt alarmed. 

“ What you askin’ all this for ? ” she cried. “ I 
say I want to know! What do you mean by cornin’ 
here and questionin’ me like this? Hey? ” 

She was still wrought up to a high, nervous pitch, 
and Stone wanted to keep her there, as he hoped 
for results from her excited state. 

“ Well,” he said, and his manner was irritating, 
“ you see—if he was so mean to you—if you hated 
him so—” 

Busybody Busby was not lacking in intuition. 

“ You mean I killed him! ” she said, in an awe- 
stricken whisper. “Me! Kill him!” 

Stone’s theory collapsed with a sudden crash. 

15 


226 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


No woman could kill a man whom she loved as Lizzie 
Busby quite evidently loved this man. 

It showed in every lineament of her agonized 
face, in her clenched hands, in her trembling, hushed 
voice, and in her wide-open pale-blue eyes, now 
streaming with tears. 

“ No, Mr. Stone,” she said, dully, “ no, I didn’t 
kill him. Nor her neither—” Then a paroxysm of 
anger seized her. “ But I’m glad he’s dead,” she 
cried, excitedly, “ I’m darn glad he’s dead! ” 

Her eyes glittered now, and Stone pressed his 
advantage. 

“ Why ? ” he urged, “ why are you glad he’s 
dead? ” 

“ He scoffed at me,” she said, looking reminis¬ 
cent, “ all the time he made fun of me—he didn’t 
know—he didn’t appreciate what I could have been 
to him—oh, men are all alike! Cold, hard, indiffer¬ 
ent—yes, I’m glad Nevin Lawrence is dead—but I 
didn’t kill him! I tell you I didn't kill him! ” 

The shriek that accompanied this was almost 
maniacal, so much so, that Stone suddenly revised 
his opinion of her innocence. Was she a consummate 
liar? Has she known that furthest fury of a woman 
scorned and wreaked her vengeance on the scorner ? 
How could he find out? She was so diabolically 
clever, so plausibly deceitful. And a woman like that, 
in love, has her shrewdness intensified by her affec- 


THE NET 




tion, her adroitness sharpened by her emotions, until 
she is almost superhuman. 

“ If you had killed him, Lizzie,” he said, insinu¬ 
atingly, “ you would have had to kill her, too—be¬ 
cause she saw you.” 

“ Yes,” she returned, but she spoke as one in a 
trance, “ yes, they all say that because she saw him 
killed, she had to be killed too—killed too—” 

Her voice trailed away in an indistinct murmur, 
and for the life of him, Stone couldn’t form the least 
conclusion whether he was listening to a deep-dyed 
criminal or merely an hysterical woman in love. 

Nor, he decided, could he learn more from her 
now. She was too ready to talk, she talked too much 
at random, he could place no confidence in her state¬ 
ments or her implications. 

He made one last effort. 

She was sitting quiet, for a moment, staring into 
vacancy, hands clasped and lips slightly parted. 

Stone leaned forward until his dark, glowering 
face nearly touched her own, and said, slowly: 

" You were that queer man, Lizzie Busby! You 
yourself! You did it all. Now, where did you 
put those shoes ? ” 

“ What?” 

The word was not screamed, rather it seemed to 
come up from the very depths of her soul, and she 
stared at him, hollow-eyed and pale-faced. 


228 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Yes, that man you describe so perfectly, was 
just yourself— you —in a man's coat and hat—and 
shoes! You killed Nevin Lawrence! ” 

“ Did I? ” she said, hollowly, “ well, maybe I did. 
You go now.” 

Still with that trance-like air, she rose, and opened 
the door for him. Stone went out—he felt he could 
stand no more just then. Where was this leading 
him? 

Leaving the Busby house, placed as it was between 
Woodbine cottage and Gray Porches, but much 
further back than either, Stone was uncertain which 
way to turn. 

But Emma Lily, coming out of the Gray’s back 
door, waved her apron at him and beckoned. 

He went slowly toward her, not sure he wanted 
to talk to anyone just then. 

“ Them women wants to see you—” she flung an 
indicative hand toward one of the porches. “ Go 
along in.” 

Following her intent, Stone went in at the kitchen 
door, through a dining room, and out onto a small 
porch where several of the boarders were grouped. 

Mrs, Endicott took the initiative. 

“ What are you doing over at Lizzie Busby’s? ” 
she demanded, and Stone, taken aback at such sudden 
inquisition, stared at her. 

“ Now, don’t look like that,” Mrs. Endicott went 


THE NET 


229 


on. She had suddenly become dictatorial. “ I say, 
did you go over there to ballyrag that poor woman? ” 

“ Mrs. Endicott,” the detective said, “ are you 
my keeper? ” 

The slight, courteous smile on his face made her 
turn red, and the Boston lady felt uncomfortable. 

Mrs. Trent interposed. 

“We only want to know, Mr. Stone,” she said, 
gently, “because we are all fond of Miss Busby, 
and we know about her—her unfortunate admiration 
for Mr. Lawrence—and we want to ask you not to 
trouble her more than is necessary.” 

“And just how much do you concede to be 
necessary, Mrs. Trent?” So now, it was Mrs. 
Trent’s turn to look uncomfortable. 

But she rose to the occasion. 

“That we don’t know, Mr. Stone. I suppose 
you must do your duty—but, surely, you can’t sus¬ 
pect that poor little woman!” 

“ I can suspect anybody, Mrs. Trent,” he said, 
calmly. “If my suspect is innocent, it can do no 
harm, can it ? ” 

“Yes, it can. Suspicion always harms a person 
—sometimes even more, if there are no facts be¬ 
hind it.” 

“ Facts are so hard to prove,” Stone said, slowly. 
“ Now, here is a fact—” he drew the hair net from 
his pocket. As he did so, he ran his quick eyes around 


230 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


from head to head of the dozen women present. But 
all had hats on, so he could see nothing of their hair. 

And as in the case of Lizzie Busby, they paid 
small attention to it. “ What about it? ” Miss Lowe 
asked, curiously. 

“ It was found beneath the dead body of Mrs. 
Sayre.” 

Again Stone’s glance flew from face to face, 
but he found no look of recognition or of embar¬ 
rassment or self-consciousness. 

He could not have said himself what he was 
looking for, but he was always alert. 

“What does that mean to you?” asked Mrs. 
Endicott, who had recovered from her snub. 

“Everything or nothing,” he replied, senten- 
tiously, thinking it time to mystify them a little. 

“ That’s a big order,” said Mrs. Trent, smiling. 
“ I can understand how it might mean nothing, but 
how could it mean everything? ” 

“ Only this. If a woman killed—” 

A horrified shriek from all present drowned his 
words. 

“Oh,” and “No!” came from startled lips in 
chorus. 

“Women have committed crimes,” Stone went 
on, quietly, “even more horrendous crimes than 
men. You all know this, so your protestations lose 
weight.” 


THE NET 


231 


“ And you think a woman did it, and left that 
net behind her? ” exclaimed Mrs. Trent, her face 
full of horror. 

“ It may be so,” and Stone returned the net to 
his pocket-book. “ Or the net may have come there 
in a dozen innocent ways. I suppose,” he looked 
reflectively around, “ these hair nets are all alike?” 

“ By no means,” said Miss Hemingway, 
promptly. “ There are various makes and shapes, 
beside, of course, various colors. The Neptune nets 
are the best ones.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think so,” said Miss Lowe. “ I 
always wear the Pandora.” 

Stone listened to a little further discussion of this 
momentous question, and wished he had taken a 
complete course in Hair Nettery along with the rest 
of his detective education. 

“ What do you think was the motive for the 
fearful crime, Mr. Stone?” asked Lura Endicott. 
She had asked him this question a dozen times before, 
but she never could think of another. 

“ Hard to say. Not robbery, for nothing is 
missing but a pearl pin, and that may be put away 
somewhere. Though, perhaps Mrs. Sayre had other 
rings on her fingers. Does any one know? She 
was buried with only her wedding ring.” 

“ What? ” exclaimed Mrs. Trent. 


232 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Yes, only the one. Why does that sur¬ 
prise you? ” 

“ Only because in these days, nearly every woman 
wears rings.” 

“ But not to bed,” said Mrs. Endicott. “I sup¬ 
pose the police have all those properties in their 
charge—jewelry, clothing and such things.” 

“ Yes,” Stone said, a little absently. “ It is the 
strangest case. Why does no relative, however, dis¬ 
tant, come forward to claim the personal property? ” 

“ The whole estate belongs to our public library,” 
said Mrs. Gray, who had just joined them. “ Oh, 
don’t talk about it! It’s all too awful! ” And with 
her eyes full of tears the good woman hur¬ 
ried away again. 

“ She knew them personally, you see, said Miss 
Hemingway, as if to apologize for the lack of emo¬ 
tion on the part of the rest of them. 

“ But you don’t seriously suspect Lizzie Busby, 
do you? ” and Mrs. Endicott returned to her first 
question. 

“ Look here, Mrs. Endicott,” Stone said, “ if a 
complete stranger had killed Mr. Lawrence, and if 
Mrs. Sayre had seen the deed, or heard the shot, 
wouldn’t she have raised a disturbance? Wouldn’t 
she have screamed so that the neighbors must have 
heard her? But if the assassin was some one known 


THE NET 


233 


to Mrs. Sayre, she would be transfixed with horror, 
but she would act differently.” 

“ Perhaps so,” Mrs. Endicott said, dubiously. 

“ Again, if a man had attacked Mrs. Sayre, she 
never could have put up the desperate fight that the 
evidence proves she did put up. It looks far more 
like a woman-to-woman encounter than the 
work of a brutal man.” 

“ I don’t see that,” said Mrs. Trent, in her decided 
way. “ Miss Busby said at the start, the man was 
of a furtive, skulking nature. That doesn’t sound 
like a big, brutal man.” 

“ But he was big, Miss Busby said,” Stone re¬ 
turned, “ and he must have been brutal. However, 
those points apply to either man or woman. I’m 
interested now in this net. Miss Hemingway, is 
this a Neptune?” 

He handed her the cobweb net, and after an 
examination, she said decidedly, “ no, that is 
a Pandora.” 

“Of course it is,” agreed Miss Lowe. 

“ Thank you,” said Fleming Stone. 


CHAPTER XIV 

IN THE WEDDING RING 

Into the funny little village shop, which kept 
everything from hats to shoes, Fleming Stone went. 

The girl behind the counter smiled, bridled, and 
patted at her ear puffs as the grave, good-looking 
man bowed politely. 

“ Have you hair nets ? ” he asked, quite casually. 

“ Yes, sir,” the girl stared at him. “ What color ? ” 

“ Gray, and I want to see all the different makes 
that you keep.” 

Marveling at the indiosyncrasies of city men, 
she brought out the entire stock of the shop. Not 
many sorts—only three in all. 

“ Which is the Pandora? ” Stone asked. 

“ This. And this is the Neptune, and this the 
Fairy. Neptune’s the best.” 

Can you tell me, and Stone took the net from 
his own pocket-book, “ what kind this is? It seems 
different from these of yours.” 

“ It i s -” She looked at it carefully. “ I never 
saw one like this. It’s stronger and better made than 
these we carry. Must cost about twice as much.” 

“And you don’t know the name of it, or the 
name of the maker? ” 

234 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


235 


“ No sir, I don’t. Like’s not it’s a new one, just 
put on the market.” 

“ I can’t see that it is very different from these 
you have.” 

“No, sir, you couldn’t tell ’em apart, but to any¬ 
body who knows about ’em, the difference is plain.” 

Stone thanked her and went away. He went 
straight to the post-office. There, he wrote a letter 
to one of his assistants in New York, and taking a 
pair of scissors from his pocket, he cut the hair net 
in two and enclosed half of it in the letter. 

That ought to settle it, he told himself, and 
turned, to see Lewis at his elbow. 

“ Hello, Mr. Stone. I’m just back from New 
York, and I have the Lawrence stories—all of them.” 

“ Have you read them? ” 

“ Yes; but to me they tell nothing. I think you’d 
better read them yourself. Not a hard job, they’re 
really interesting.” 

“ Any allusions to those little Tanagra figurines 
in any of them ? ” 

“ Only in one that appeared in the magazine 
two months ago. There’s quite a lot in that one.” 

“ Give me that first, then.” 

“ You still think that broken statuette is a clue? ” 

“I think it may be. You see, there was no 
struggle in Lawrence’s room. I’ve learned that the 
figure usually stood in the middle of a table, not where 


£36 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


it was at all likely to be knocked off accidentally by 
anyone passing. There was nothing else upset or 
out of place, so I can’t help thinking that ornament 
was thrown down purposely, by an angry hand. It 
looks to me like a vicious act. Maybe I’m wrong, 
but I tell you, Lewis, this is an unusually obscure case. 
To me, it looks this way. All dark, but if we get one 
ray of light—a true ray—it will clear up the whole 
matter at once.” 

“ That’s going some! ” 

“ Yet, I feel it’s true. We haven’t struck the 
right path yet, of that I’m certain.” 

“ Busybody Busby? ” 

“ I’ve still got my eye on her—but I don’t think 
she did it. She loved that man too much to kill him.” 

“ I can’t agree to that, Mr. Stone. I’ve heard 
how she adored him, and he had no use for her— 
why should he have? Now, I hold that the woman 
whose love is not returned, is transformed, some¬ 
times, into a very devil, quite capable of killing the 
man she loves.” 

“ It may be,” Stone agreed; “ as I say, I’ve still 
an eye on her. The gray net, may be hers.” 

He gave Lewis the history of the hair net. 

“ That settles it,” Lewis declared. “ Who else 
that wears a gray net had any reason to hate Nevin 
Lawrence? Oh, it was the Busby all right. You’ll 
come back to that conclusion, finally.” 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


£37 


They separated, Stone going to Woodbine cottage, 
to look over the rooms again. He had done this a 
dozen times, but he had a queer feeling that if he 
soaked himself in the atmosphere of the house, some 
sort of inspiration would come to him. He had 
never been so baffled with a case before. There were 
many ways to look, but none seemed the right way. 

He was thinking about that strange business of 
Mrs. Sayre’s wedding ring. Why was it off her 
finger and on the floor out of her reach, when Emma 
Lily found her? Had Emma Lily told the truth 
about that? Yet, why in the name of common sense 
would she make up such a yarn ? 

And stranger still was the undertaker’s state¬ 
ment of the initials inside. Stone had made light of 
that, saying perhaps they were the initials of nick¬ 
names or pet names, but really, he considered 
it a very important matter. 

“ E. R. from J. T.” 

Yet only lately, Stone had had occasion to check 
up on a similar matter, and he had gone to one of 
the largest jewelers’ shops in New York. 

He had learned there, that the inscriptions in 
wedding rings were only about fifty per cent, the 
real initials of the married pair. Often there were 
no names or initials; just Mizpah, or Forever, or I 
Love You, or some such sentiment. Again there were 
initials that stood for pet names. Stone remembered 


238 THE FURTHEST FURY 

one was S. H. from B. M. and he had been told that 
it meant Sweetheart from Big Man. 

So, the E. R. from J. T. might be some such 
matter, or—it might be an important clue. 

For it might mean that Mrs. Sayre was not the 
real name of the sister of Nevin Lawrence. 

But this was only conjecture and could get no¬ 
where without some corroborating evidence. 

Mrs. Sayre was so highly esteemed by the whole 
community, Stone felt that there was small chance 
of her living under a false identity. 

Yet he had an impelling feeling that he must 
hunt out more about her. 

Seeing him in the window, Emma Lily came over 
from Gray Porches. 

“ I say,” she began, without ceremony, “ don’t 
you tie up Lizzie Busby to this awful thing. She 
hadn’t no more to do with it than I had.” 

“ Look here, Emma Lily, how do you know that ? 
Miss Busby was pretty fond of Mr. Lawrence—” 

“ Well, what of that? ” 

“ And he didn’t care for her—in any ser¬ 
ious way.” 

“ You bet he didn’t! Him ? Why, he was as far 
above her as the stars are above the earth.” 

“ Yes, and so, when she made love to him—” 

“ Oh, come now, she wouldn’t do that—” 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


“ You know she did, Emma Lily. You know 
Lizzie Busby did beg him to care for her—” 

This was a long shot on Stone’s part, but it hit 
the mark. 

“ I never was sure of that,” the woman said, 
thoughtfully, “ but I daresay she did.” 

“ Of course she did. Well, when he refused to 
listen to her, mightn’t she have been so angry, so 
furious, that she—” 

“ No! never in a thousand years! But, look here, 
Mr. Stone, Lizzie Busby adores a sensation. She 
loves to be talked about, to be—you know, in the 
public eye. And she’d love to be suspected of this 
crime, just to be a nine days’ wonder—” 

“ Why, what do you mean ? An accused criminal, 
just to get in the limelight! ” 

“ Exactly that,” Emma Lily nodded her head 
vigorously. “ You can’t understand a nature like 
that, I s’pose. But I know Busybody better’n you do, 
and I’m sure of what I say. And I’m sure she didn’t 
kill those blessed people.” 

“ But when I taxed her with it, she said, 4 Well, 
maybe I did,’ wasn’t that confession?” 

“ Didn’t I tell you!” triumphantly, “ she said 
that to get you going. Of course it wasn’t confession, 
it was just to keep you talking about her. She can’t 
help bein’ like that, she always has been.” 

“ All right, probably she is innocent. Now, 


240 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Emma Lily, tell me honestly, what do you think 
of that wedding ring business? Why was Mrs. 
Sayre’s ring off her finger and on the floor? ” 

“ I don’t know.” Emma Lily’s face was solemn. 
“ I’ve thought that over a heap. I can’t think of 
anything but that it was sort of loose, and it came 
off in the struggle she put up.” 

“ I suppose so. Do you know whether it was 
loose or not ? ” 

“ No, I don’t. I’ve been here about two years, 
and Mrs. Sayre hadn’t fell away none that I ever 
noticed. But maybe she was thinner than she was 
when she was married.” 

“ How long had she been married? ” 

“ I don’t know at all. But her husband was 
killed in the war, so she must’a been married quite a 
good many years.” 

“ Do you know anything about her husband? ” 
“ Nothing more than that—that he was killed 
in the war.” 

“ Is there a picture of him about the house? ” 
“ I never saw any.” 

“Doesn’t that seem strange? Did you never 
speak to Mrs. Sayre of him? ” 

“ Once I did—about a year ago. I says, * ain’t 
you got a photograph of Mr. Sayre, ma’am ? ’ and she 
says, quick like—‘ oh, no, I couldn’t bear to have one 
around.’ So I never mentioned it again.” 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


241 


“ And do you think she meant that she cared 
for him so much that it hurt her to see his picture— 
or, that she didn’t care for him ? ” 

Emma Lily didn’t reply at once. Then she said, 
“ well, at first, I thought she loved him so, it made 
her cry to see his picture, and then—” 

“ Yes, and then—” 

“ Well, I don’t know how to put it. But when 
a woman never speaks of her husband at all—and I 
never heard her mention him to her brother or to 
anybody—and never has his picture, even hidden 
away—why, it seems like she couldn’t’a cared much 
about him.” 

“ And how do you know she didn’t have a pic¬ 
ture hidden away? ” 

“ Well, I never saw none. I’ve been around her 
room when she was cleanin’ out cupboards and 
bureau drawers, and all that, and I never saw a sign 
of his picture. And land, sir, haven’t the detectives 
ransacked’ her belongings lately? And d;id they 
find any? ” 

“ There seem to be no photographs at all around,” 
Stone said, musingly. 

“ Well, no, there ain’t. There’s a picture of Mr. 
Lawrence in Mrs. Sayre’s room, and a little picture 
of her in his room, but as you say, there aren’t any 
others. I don’t know why they never seemed to have 
any friends outside of New Midian.” 

16 


242 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ That is one of the strangest elements in the 
case,” Stone observed. “ Could they have been 
hiding here—” 

“ No, sir! You just get any such notion as that 
out of your head! 

“ Whatever was the reason they wanted to 
shake their friends and relations—if they had any re¬ 
lations, it wasn’t any wrong doing, of that I’m certain. 
Why, Mr. Lawrence was the finest gentleman in the 
world. He couldn’t ever have done anything wrong 
—he simpully couldn’t have! And as for Mrs. Sayre, 
she was just a born angel! I won’t have anybody 
say one word against them two beautiful people! 
That I won’t! ” 

“ But,” on an impulse Stone decided to tell her 
this, “ do you know Emma Lily, inside Mrs. Sayre’s 
ring it said, ‘ E. R. from J. T.’ ? ” 

“ My land! Then she wore some other woman’s 
ring? Likely her mother’s. I know a girl that was 
married with her mother’s ring—” 

“ I never thought of that,” and Fleming Stone 
was chagrined at his own defective imagination. 

“ That may be the solution.” 

“ Or it might have been Mr. Sayre’s mother’s 
ring—no, no, then the man’s name would’a begun 
with an S.” 

“ Why, Emma Lily, you’re a real detective! 
That’s good work.” 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


243 


“ Nothin’ very smart about that. Anyway, don’t 
you go to thinkin’ things about that angel woman. 
Whatever was in that ring, was right and proper, 
that’s what it was! I say, that’s what it was! ” 

“ Well, what’s your theory of the murder, Emma 
Lily? Who do you suppose did it, or could have 
done it ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea. And 
you haven’t either. This case, Mr. Detective, is a 
huckleberry above your persimmons. Now, you let 
it alone. You go back where you came from, and 
leave this thing lay. 

“ For why not ? There’s no near kin who wants 
the crime avenged. There’s no parents or children 
of them two, who wants to find out. It’s unusual, but 
its so. ’S far’s we know, nobody on earth, exceptin’ 
mere neighbors has any call to go ferretin’ about—” 
“ The state considers it a duty—” 

“ Oh, the state! Much they care! Let ’em alone, 
and see how quick they drop it. You came up here— 
I know all about it—to get Bark Hazelton out of it 
—and that little Lee girl. Well, you’ve done it, the 
state won’t ever hark back to them again—” 

“ You don’t know that.” 

“ Well, anyway, you’ll never get at the truth of 
the matter. It was somebody from outside New 
Midian—be sure of that.” 


244 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ Someone then, connected with the past life 
of—” 

“ Now, you shut up! I tell you I won’t hear 
anything against them two! More likely it was a 
reg’lar thug—if that’s what they call ’em.” 

“Meaning a burglar or highwayman?” 

“ Yes. Where’s that pearl stickpin of Mr. Law¬ 
rence’s? The thief took it. Then Mr. Lawrence 
woke up and the thief shot him. Then Mrs. Sayre 
come a runnin’ to see what the rumpus was, and he 
shot her. There’s the whole thing.” 

“ It may be. And your thief smashed the 
little statue? ” 

“ Why not? Somebody smashed it. I didn’t.” 

“You may be right. And I promise not to 
trouble Miss Busby further, unless I get some new 
and direct evidence against her. Now, I’m going 
to go over Mrs. Sayre’s things again. You go on 
back to the Gray’s.” 

“All right. But you won’t find nothin’ new. 
Lewis went over ’em, and I looked through ’em 
myself.” 

But Stone went up to the pretty room that had 
been Janet Sayre’s and instituted a new quest for 
some sign or some token of her husband. 

He found nothing—nothing at all that could by 
any possibility be a memento of any man. 

There was a picture of a handsome young fellow, 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


245 


whose features were readily recognizable as Law¬ 
rence at the age of about twenty. 

There was a picture of a child, marked on the 
back, “ Herbert, four years old.” 

Stone looked at this carefully. Could it have been 
Mrs. Sayre’s child? 

He thought not, for it had an old-fashioned air, 
and, too, it had a resemblance to Nevin Lawrence, 
perhaps another brother, who had died young. 

There was no photographer’s mark on this pic¬ 
ture, it had been cut off. This was a point, to Stone’s 
mind. Why cut off the address ? 

The picture of Lawrence as a young man had a 
photographer’s name, and also the word Chicago. 

This Stone put in his pocket, and after a moment’s 
hesitation, took also the picture of the child. 

They must be relatives, he concluded. There are 
so few photographs about, they can’t be merely 
casual friends. 

A search of Lawrence’s room gave up no new 
portraits whatever. The photograph of Mrs. Sayre 
still stood on his chiffonier, but no others could be 
found. This photograph was a fairly recent one* 
he judged, and it had been taken in New York. 

Wearily, Stone looked over the books again. 
Many of them had Lawrence’s name scribbled on the 
fly-leaf, some had his initials. Several had their 
fly-leaves torn out. 


246 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


This fact struck Stone as peculiar. A book or 
two with a missing fly-leaf is not strange, but here 
there were a dozen or more whose fly-leaves were torn 
out. Why? 

Probably for a perfectly good reason, Stone told 
himself. Bought second-hand, maybe, or given to him 
by somebody who had no further use for them. 

One little volume bore the words “ From Elaine.” 
They were quite evidently written by Lawrence him¬ 
self, and though Stone made a note of it he couldn’t 
hope that it meant much. The book was The Love 
Sonnets of Proteus, a small volume of impassioned 
poetry. There was no written date and the book 
might have been a gift from Lawrence’s wife, either 
before or after their marriage. And here Stone was 
struck by a sudden thought. 

There was apparently no portrait of Lawrence’s 
wife among the effects. This was as strange as 
the absence of any picture of the late Mr. Sayre. 

Stone began to rummage harder. He looked into 
books, into boxes, through papers in all the desk 
drawers and pigeon holes—not a picture could he find. 

“Queer!” he exclaimed to himself, “mighty 
queer.” 

He even went up into the attic and hunted through 
the trunks and boxes up there. But all to no avail. 
For some reason, both brother and sister, he con- 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


247 


eluded, had shaken off all connection with their 
former life and people. 

What could be the reason? he speculated. Was 
there some family secret, some disgrace, that this 
brother and sister did not have a share in and had 
run away from? It was mysterious, and he saw no 
glimmer of light. 

Back to Hazel Hill he went, and held confab 
with the men there. 

The two Hazeltons and Stanhope were deeply 
interested. 

“ It’s deuced odd,” Barker said, after hearing 
all, “ but one thing I know, whatever there may have 
been in Mr. Lawrence’s past there never was a flaw 
in Mrs. Sayre. She was as white and pure as an 
angel—” 

“ Everybody seems to think her angelic,” Stone 
smiled. “And I’m not casting any aspersions. I 
think, with you, if there was anything shady in their 
past, it was Lawrence’s doing not his sister’s. Sup¬ 
pose there was a cloud over him, it would be just 
like a good woman, her own husband dead, to stand 
by her brother.” 

“ That husband may have been the wrong one,” 
suggested Stanhope. “ Say he was a scoundrel, and 
Lawrence was standing by his sister. How’s that? ” 

“ Good enough,” Stone said, “ but all imagination. 
Now, I’ve just combed that house again for clues, 


248 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


and found nothing—or almost nothing. A couple 
of old photographs—that’s all. But to my mind, 
the entire absence of all clues to past memories or 
early years, is a clue in itself.” 

“ Just how? ” asked Amos Hazelton, interestedly. 

“ Why, such utter lack of keepsakes or records, 
seems to me to prove a desperate desire to eliminate 
all the past, to put it all out of their memory.” 

“ A desire,” Stanhope agreed, “ but why a des¬ 
perate desire? That implies wrong—” 

“ And I suspect wrong, somewhere, on the part 
of somebody,” Stone told them. “ Normally speak¬ 
ing, a brother and sister are going to keep some old 
trinkets or letters of their parents. They’re going 
to have some old box of relics, some family heirlooms, 
or at least pictures of their parents.” 

“ It does seem so,” Amos said. “ But it needn’t 
necessarily mean anything wrong. They may have 
come from a larger house, and so left behind any¬ 
thing that would crowd them here.” 

“ Or,” said Stanhope, “ they may have put a box 
or trunk of such mementos as you speak of, in 
storage, or, if valuable, in safe deposit.” 

“All true,” Stone conceded, “but I still think 
it’s queer to have nothing with them. Anyway, I’m 
banking on that fact as a clue, and we’ll see if it 
gets us anywhere ? ” 


IN THE WEDDING RING 


249 


“ How are you going to work at it ? ” Barker 
asked. 

“ First of all, I’m going to send this picture of 
Lawrence when young, to Chicago. I hate to let it 
go, but I shall send it to a man I know and see if he 
can trace it to the photographer who took it. We 
may get information from that. If so, I may have 
to go to Chicago myself. I begin to think we’ll have 
to get at Lawrence’s past life. I don’t think your 
New Midianites are responsible for this awful crime. 
No club-house quarrel,” he glanced at Barker, “ and 
no foolish Busby woman are strongly enough indi¬ 
cated for such a cold-blooded, heartless crime.” 

“ You’ve given up the idea of a woman criminal ?” 
Amos asked. 

“ Not at all. It seems to me to be the work 
of a woman. But that’s only surmise based on some 
feminine effects. There’s that hair net. It wasn’t 
bought here, and I’ve sent part of it to New York 
to learn where it was bought. That may tell us 
something. Usually I prefer to work these things 
out alone, but in this case, I enjoy talking it over 
with you men. Your suggestions are helpful, and I 
confess I don’t know which way to look.” 

“ You seem to have a number of lines out,” Stan¬ 
hope said, “ and I see you brought up a lot of 
magazines.” 

“ Yes, Lawrence’s stories—all of them. I mean 


250 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


to read them carefully, hoping to get something 
between the lines. Often an author reveals himself 
in his stories, without intending to do so. Lawrence 
wasn’t interested in the ladies here, at all, was he? ” 

“ No,” said Barker. “ I shouldn’t call him a 
woman hater, but he was really indifferent to all the 
girls and women here, both the natives and the sum¬ 
mer people. I always thought of him as a man who 
had buried his heart in his wife’s grave.” 

“ Probably that’s right,” Stone said, a little 
absently. 


CHAPTER XV 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 

Stone sat up a good part of the night reading 
the Lawrence stories. In one of them, published 
about two months earlier, there was a long descrip¬ 
tion of the Tanagra figurines, as well as a charming 
account of the town of Bceotia in Greece, where the 
little Terra Cotta shapes are found. 

The story was idyllic, and quite obviously the 
work of one who had been there and knew the ground 
very well. 

The detective sat musing, wondering if he held 
in his hand threads which he could weave into a 
coherent web. 

He was sure the Tanagra figurine was smashed 
by the murderer in a spasm of rage. Why, he could 
not imagine, but it seemed to him a positive clue. 
Yet a clue to what ? To whom ? 

Also, he was sure the lack of all objects having 
any connection with the past was of important indi¬ 
cation. He didn’t believe another house in New 
Midian, or for that matter, in all New England, was 
utterly without any article whatever, reminiscent of 
more than two years ago. 

Though some of the books were of a by-gone 

251 


252 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


age, there were no marks or dates written to show 
early ownership. 

It was as if a sponge had wiped away everything 
in that house that existed more than two 
years ago. 

This, in itself, was so extraordinary that Stone 
concluded it was his best line of research, and he 
determined to push it further. 

He spent his nights as well as his days partly at 
Gray Porches and partly at the Woodbine cottage. 
Also, he took an occasional meal with the Hazeltons, 
glad to have the benefit of Amos’ hard common sense 
and Stanhope’s ingenuity. 

But he concluded he had not yet wrung the village 
dry of its possible information and he started early 
in the morning to hunt it through again. 

The community, as a whole, liked Stone, and 
willingly entered into conversation on any phase of 
the now celebrated murder case. 

But he soon found, by his adroit questioning that 
no one in the village knew one iota concerning the 
life of the brother and sister before they came to 
New Midian. 

Most of them resented the implication that they 
should know or care. 

Their attitude was, that the two had arrived, had 
made good in every way, and so were entitled to 
courtesy and respect without curiosity. 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 253 


Had Lawrence or Mrs. Sayre been disagreeable 
or unneighborly, some questions might have been 
raised, but so genuinely were they liked that no one 
harbored a doubt of their integrity and worth. 

The only person who cast even the slightest word 
of dissatisfaction was Mrs. Lee, mother of Gladys. 

As the village dressmaker, Stone hoped she might 
be a gossip. 

This she did not prove to be, but she admitted a 
certain disappointment in the fact that Mrs. Sayre 
was not anxious to exchange war stories with her. 

“ My husband was killed in the war,” Mrs. Lee 
told Stone, “and Mrs. Sayre’s was too. I asked her 
about him, and about his experiences and his death, 
but she shut up like a clam, and then she changed 
the subject. 

“ Several times I tried it, but she simply wouldn’t 
talk about it.” 

“ That is not surprising,” Stone told her, “ often 
people do not want their sorrow mentioned, especially 
the death of a husband.” 

“ I know,” Mrs. Lee returned, “ but she seemed 
nervous when I spoke of the war—not sad, but upset.” 

“ I can’t see that that is strange,” Stone said 
though he weighed Mrs. Lee’s words thoughtfully. 
“ It may be the circumstances of his death were 
harrowing, and she couldn’t bear to think of them.” 

But he thought this over. It was a little odd. 


254 THE FURTHEST FURY 

It was now at least three or four years since the death 
of her husband, and after that length of time, women 
are often glad to talk with other women similarly 
placed. He knew that many war widows eagerly 
talked with one another about their bereavement. 

And then, he came back to the queer lack of 
mementoes in the house. 

If Mrs. Sayre were so sensitive to the subject of 
her husband’s death, would it not seem natural that 
she should have souvenirs of his life with her, or at 
least a picture of him ? 

Perhaps that picture marked Herbert, aged 
four, was a child picture of her husband. Perhaps 
she had never had a later one. Some men will not 
sit for a photograph. 

Yet he had thought that four-year-old child 
looked a little like Lawrence himself, and he had sur¬ 
mised it was another brother. Still, one couldn’t 
judge from a baby picture. It was all very strange. 
Where was her wedding certificate—but that, doubt¬ 
less, was in safe deposit with other valuable papers. 
She must have had some papers—everybody has. 

Where was the safe deposit? Or storage ware¬ 
house? Why was there no receipt of any kind for 
such things ? Neither Mrs. Sayre nor Lawrence had 
any such receipts—at least, none had been found. 
Nor any keys. 

The bank they used in New York knew nothing 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 255 


more of them than the general information that was 
common property. 

Apparently they had been so far above reproach 
that no one had thought of checking them up. 

Nor did Stone know aught against them, save 
for that queer fact of no background to their lives. 

Why did they never get a letter from a cousin or 
an old school friend? Why did such never visit 
them? Why did they never go back to see their 
former home or homes ? 

That these things never happened, Stone had 
learned from Emma Lily. He took her with him to 
make further search in the kitchen quarters of the 
cottage. 

“ Show me the old silver,” he said; “ the old 
dishes—is there nothing but new stuff? ” 

Search brought out an old-fashioned silver spoon 
marked “ Rowland.” 

Stone pounced on it. It was, he judged, well 
over fifty years old, and he jumped to the conclusion 
that it had belonged to the parents of Lawrence and 
his sister, or else, it had descended from the family 
of Mr. Sayre. 

“ Or Mr. Lawrence’s wife,” Emma Lily put in. 
“ I do wonder what Mr. Lawrence’s wife was like. 
He never mentioned her, that I ever heard.” 

There it was again! No mementoes, no souve¬ 
nirs, no portraits of Nevin Lawrence’s wife! 

Why, why this utter absence of memorabilia? 


256 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Stone discussed it with Emma Lily. He treated 
this servant more as an equal, which in most respects 
she was. And her brain was quick and intelligent. 

She looked at him solemnly. 

“ It’s the queerest thing in the world,” she said; 
“ I say, it’s the queerest thing! I used to set and 
wonder about it by the hour. But when I came to 
know ’em, I knew whatever the secret was, it was 
no fault of theirs. Somebody did somethin’ wrong 
I make me no doubt—I say I make me no doubt. But 
who it was, or what they done, I don’t know.” 

“ They never had any other things—old things? 
They never cleared out a lot of them—” 

“ Never. They brought next to nothin’ when they 
came. Took the house furnished. Then, little by 
little, they bought new and prettier furnichoor, and 
let Mr. Gray take back the old stuff. ’Course, he 
could always use it in his boarders’ rooms.” 

“ The rooms here are beautifully furnished.” 

“Yes, they are. Mrs. Sayre and Mr. Lawrence, 
they used to go down to New York for two or three 
days at a time, and when they came back a lot of 
new furnichoor would follow. Till they got the house 
all fixed up to suit ’em.” 

“ Did Mrs. Sayre smoke cigarettes ? ” 

“ Land no, she wasn’t that sort. Quiet like and 
lady-like—-that’s what Mrs. Sayre was.” 

“ But lots of fine ladies smoke nowadays.” 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 257 


“ Let ’em. Mrs. Sayre didn’t, anyhow. A real 
homebody, she was, no gadding, no skylarking. Just 
lived for her brother, and him for her.” 

“ They had the same tastes—” 

“ Always. What one liked the other did. They’d 
be as happy over a new spring crocus, or over the 
red leaves in the fall, as if they had a new toy. Awful 
fond of nature. They’d sometimes go off for long 
walks, take a bit of lunch and stay out all day. Just 
home-like, simple-minded folks, and sufficient to 
themselves.” 

“ Didn’t like company? ” 

“ Always glad to see callers, and now and then 
a dinner party. But they were just as happy alone 
by themselves. It seemed to me, that as both of ’em 
had had their life mate, as you might say, and both 
had lost ’em, they was contented not to try it again, 
but just stay by each other the rest of their nateral 
lives—which they did, poor things, though their end 
wasn’t nateral! ” 

Emma Lily fell to weeping, and Stone asked only 
one more question. 

“ Didn’t you say that Mrs. Sayre took care of her 
brother’s room ? ” 

“ Not to say took care of it, in the sense of 
sweepin’ and cleanin’. But she’d look after the fresh 
curtains, and keep flowers on his table, and now and 
then dust around the books, or the like of that. Mrs. 

17 


258 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Sayre was a tidy house-keeper, and she loved to look 
after such things herself.” 

“ Neat and particular, eh? ” 

“ Oh, land, you bet she was! Never scolded, but 
if I neglected my work, she’d call me down so nice, 
I couldn’t get mad. Why, the silver had to be polished 
just so—land sakes, that reminds me, there is another 
old spoon! Here it is—” Emma Lily took it from 
a drawer, “ It’s a baby spoon, d’ you see? And it’s 
marked 4 Herbert.’ ” 

Stone took the little old spoon, with the handle 
turned back on itself, as “ baby spoons ” are made, 
and scrutinized it. 

Undoubtedly this had belonged to the child in 
the picture, named Herbert. Equally probable it was 
that Herbert was a relative, for choice, a brother. 

Well, at least they had two souvenirs of their 
early life. Herbert Lawrence—that would be. Was 
he dead? Stone surmised that he was, for such a 
congenial brother and sister, who cared for the little 
spoon of their brother, would surely be in touch 
with him, were he alive. 

Killed in the war, maybe. That could be looked 
up. Or he could set machinery to work that would 
perhaps locate the dead Herbert Lawrence. 

Oh, well, Stone concluded, it was all surmise as 
to the brother, but the spoons remained, the old one 
marked Rowland and the little one marked Herbert. 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 259 


Another name seemed to hover in the back of 
Stone’s brain. Oh, yes—Elaine, that was it. Only 
the name in a book in Lawrence’s room, but—who 
was Elaine? Not a relative, presumably, for the 
book of love poems connoted a different conclusion. 
Elaine, he chose to think might be Lawrence’s wife— 

“ Emma Lily,” he said, suddenly, “ where is Mr. 
Lawrence’s watch? ” 

“ The police have it,” she replied. “ They have 
all his little jewelry bits, and hers too.” 

“ Did Mr. Lawrence have a picture in his watch 
case, do you know ? ” 

“Yes, he did—but it wasn’t his wife, if that’s 
what you’re after. It was Mrs. Sayre.” 

Another hope gone. Surely Lawrence could not 
have been very fond of his wife, or else she was not 
given to being photographed. 

Stone fell into a brown study. He was so quiet, 
and so absorbed, that after a time, Emma Lily stole 
away and went back to her work next door. 

She was regularly employed now at Gray Porches, 
but was always at the disposal of Stone or the other 
detectives when wanted. 

Fleming Stone acknowledged to himself that he 
was stumped—utterly at a loss. 

But his only gleam of light lay in the fact that 
there was no light! He still felt that his best clue 
was the absence of clues. 


260 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


The secret lay in the past life of the brother and 
sister. The mystery was there, in their life—not 
in their death. Discover the secret of their life and 
the mystery of their death would be clear. 

This he was certain of, and the next thing was to 
find out their past. It was not only unusual, he be¬ 
lieved it was unique, that a man of Lawrence’s caliber 
and standing and attainments, should have in his 
home no scrap of paper, no document, no record that 
would even corroborate his own name. 

Was it his own name? Was he living under an 
alias? Was that why no answers were received to 
the advertisement for relatives or heirs ? 

Why had the man no insurance policies ? No 
certificates of any company or organization ? Noth¬ 
ing that would require any personal data. 

It ivas incredible. It was inexplicable, except 
on the ground that it was all intentional. In that case, 
Lawrence was hiding. Stone inclined to this theory, 
that the man was hiding and his sister was standing 
by him. 

Yet, how could Lawrence be a wrong doer, and 
be so highly esteemed by all who knew him? 

But this might be. Suppose he had been a forger, 
or even a worse criminal. Suppose to conceal his 
identity, he had settled down in this tiny, inconspicu¬ 
ous village, and his sister, loving him, had thrown 
in her lot with his. Granting all that, wouldn’t they 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 261 


do exactly as they had done? So deport themselves 
as to win the respect and love of the little community, 
yet keep silent as to their earlier days. It all fitted in 
with this theory, but, he went on, if so, then it was 
Nemesis who puisued Lawrence, and finally found 
him and wreaked vengeance on him for whatever 
his crime had been. 

Stone sighed. He had no right to ascribe crime 
to this man, whom everybody loved, and against 
whom he had nothing except his lack of souvenirs of 
his past. 

Yet an author often wrote over an assumed name. 

True, but his own name was always known to his 
friends and to his publishers, if not to his public. 

Stone ran over the names he had gathered. 

Rowland, Herbert, Elaine—he didn’t know 
whether Rowland was a surname or not. Herbert, he 
assumed was not, as it was on a baby spoon, and 
child picture. 

Herbert Lawrence, he felt quite sure. Elaine 
Rowland, maybe. Their mother’s maiden name, the 
Rowland might be—but the Elaine was a friend—oh, 
why think so foolishly? Why jumble names in that 
absurd manner? 

Yet Elaine Rowland stuck in his mind. He liked 
the name, whether it ever belonged to anybody or not. 

He put on his hat and went down to the village 
post office. 


262 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


He was nearly frantic with a strange feeling that 
the knowledge he wanted was almost within his 
grasp, and yet he didn’t know which way to turn 
for it. 

The post office yielded him a letter from his assist¬ 
ant in New York, which brought the news that the 
hair net in question was one of a superior make, only 
sold in the best shops. It was called the Samson, 
and it was manufactured in Chicago, and was more 
in vogue there than in New York. The one he had 
submitted was of a color sold only to women having 
really gray hair—there was another color made for 
the ash-blondes. 

“ That lets out the Busybody,” he said to him¬ 
self, though he had really eliminated her* be fore. 

And it started another train of thought. 

Lawrence was from Chicago, suppose he had 
made an enemy of some woman there, some one with 
gray hair—young women had gray hair sometimes 
—suppose her name was Elaine—Elaine Rowland— 

Lord, what a fool he was! The Rowland was the 
family name—else why the old spoon, so unmistak¬ 
ably an heirloom ? 

And he must systematize his search. Did he 
suspect a woman, or did he look toward some man 
who knew of some crime or misdemeanor in 
Lawrence’s past life? 

That hair net must mean something! It couldn’t 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 263 


get there of itself; it couldn’t have been Mrs. Sayre’s 
or Emma Lily’s. It couldn’t have belonged to any 
of the villagers, they bought theirs at the little shop. 

It must have belonged to a stranger—and to an 
intruder—and to the person who had the struggle 
with Mrs. Sayre. 

Therefore a woman. 

But far more plausible was the theory of the 
vengeful man tracking down Lawrence, living there 
under an assumed name. 

Clearly, he must get more data before inclining 
too strongly to either supposition. 

The undertaker’s shop was near the post office 
and Stone drifted in there. 

He rather liked the little old man, and he wanted 
to put a question to him. 

“ Mr. Crouch,” he said, after greetings had been 
exchanged, “ you told me that Mr. Lawrence’s ring 
was so tight on his finger, you couldn’t get it off. 
Was Mrs. Sayre’s ring tight, too? ” 

“ No, sir, not at all—not at all. And yet, not 
to say loose, neither. Just a right fit, as a lady’d 
like to have a ring, sir.” 

“ Was it loose enough to drop off accidentally? ” 

“ Oh, no, sir. Not by no means. In fact, it had 
to be pulled a little, to get it off, yes, sir, pulled a 
little, you know.” 

“Yes, I see—thank you.” 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Then it hadn’t dropped off her finger at the time 
she met her death—it had been pulled off—by herself 
or by her assailant. H’m. 

“ Mr. Stone ”—the undertaker hesitated, “ I 
think I ought to tell you something—but I don’t 
know—I don’t know—” 

“Tell me, and I’ll tell you whether you ought to, 
or not,” Stone returned, whimsically, but Crouch 
did not smile. 

“ a queer thing,” he went on, “ a mighty queer 
thing. You know that old chappie with the white 
face ? ” 

“ Well, I know of him. He seems a queer Dick. 
Lives over Beechfield way—” 

Only boards there for a time—summer boarder 
—well, he was here yesterday.” 

“ Anything strange about him ? ” 

Stone tried not to appear eager, but he was most 
anxious to hear the undertaker’s story. He judged 
from his air of troubled uncertainty it was not with¬ 
out interest. 

“ Yes, there was. He hung around talking about 
all sorts of things, but always coming back to the 
Lawrence matter. 

“ You thought you knew them? I said to him, 
for I heard how he went to look at the bodies, that 
first morning. 

No,’ he said, sorter sighing like, ‘ no.’ And 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 265 


then he said suddenly, ‘ what did you say the letters 
was in the lady’s ring? ’ And I told him. And then 
he sighed again, why, just as if he was losin’ his mind 
— 4 see?’ ” 

“ Now, what do you mean by that? ” asked Stone. 
“ People don’t sigh because their minds are affected.” 

“ No, I s’pose not. But I can’t make it any clearer. 
He sighed, and then he sort’a muttered, and it did 
sound as if he didn’t quite know what he was saying.” 

“ What did he say? ” 

“ He said, ‘ a scar on her shoulder, eh? a scar on 
her white shoulder? ’ and I says * yes ’ kind’a short 
like, for it was none of his business, that! ” 

“ It certainly was not! Did he say any¬ 
thing more ? ” 

“ Yes, that’s what I’m coming to. He said, still 
mumbling like, ‘ and a broken wrist—’ and his voice 
trailed off like he was falling asleep.” 

“ But Mrs. Sayre’s wrist wasn’t broken.” 

“ Not lately, sir, but it had been. And you could 
see a mite of crookedness where it had been set. 
.Nothing to notice, for it had been a good job—the 
setting of it—but, of course, I noticed it, when we 
was a laying her out—yes sir. Now, how did that 
man know it ? ” 

Stone stared at the undertaker. 

“ Either,” he said, at last, “ either you had men¬ 
tioned that fact to somebody, and Taylor had heard 


266 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


of it, or—” he looked strangely excited, “ that is a 
man we want to get hold of! Where is he? ” 

“ Laws, I don’t know. He went away, and I 
didn’t think any more about it. But I never men¬ 
tioned that broken wrist to anybody—not to any¬ 
body at all.” 

“ He could have heard of it in the village—I 
suppose it was common knowledge among the lady’s 
friends.” 

“ I doubt that, sir. It hardly showed at all. No¬ 
body but a surgeon or an undertaker would have 
noticed it.” 

“ Are you implying that this man knew of it be¬ 
cause he had known Mrs. Sayre?” 

“ I don’t say that, but the way he said it, and 
—the way he said, ‘ a scar on her shoulder—on her 
white shoulder—’ why it sounded as if he might have 
known her—” 

“ Oh, pshaw, you’re overworking your imagina¬ 
tion. He’s not the sort of man who would know Mrs. 
Sayre socially, or be on friendly terms with her—” 

“ Well, you can ask him for yourself, if you like. 
There he is across the street, now.” 

Stone looked out the door, and seeing the white¬ 
faced man, beckoned him over. 

He came readily enough, and lounged into the 
shop without apparent interest. 

Stone looked at him curiously. His white face 


MEMENTOES AND SOUVENIRS 267 


was of such a death-like pallor, his dark eyes seemed 
to burn from their sockets, and altogether, he had an 
uncanny air and a mysterious manner. 

Stone, acting on a sudden impulse, a thing he 
rarely did, turned to him and said, directly: 

“ What do you know of Elaine Rowland? ” 
With a hollow shriek, the man threw out his 
hands wildly, his jaw sagged, and he fell to the floor 
in convulsions. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE PEARL PIN 

New Midian boasted a small hospital, the pride 
of the village, and to this Taylor was taken. 

His case was diagnosed as epilepsy, but he was 
also said to be on the verge of an attack of brain fever. 

This precluded any questioning of the patient, 
at least for the present, but Stone did not mind that, 
since he had the man where he couldn’t get away and 
would be able to question him later. 

The whole case was now in Stone’s hands. 

Fraser had reconvened his adjourned inquest, but 
it had resulted in an open verdict. Lewis was ready 
and willing to act merely as Stone’s assistant, and 
willingly obeyed all instructions. 

And Stone was working harder than he had 
ever before worked on a mystery. 

He was sure now that the secret lay in Lawrence’s 
past life, and he was determined to get some light on 
those past years. 

He knew now that Taylor, the white-faced man, 
was in some way mixed up in the matter, or at least 
that he knew the brother and sister. 

To be sure he had said he didn’t, when he called 

to look at the bodies the morning after the tragedy, 

268 


THE PEARL PIN 


but it was clear to Stone that he did know them, and 
called to identify them. 

Stone did not as yet suspect him of the crime or 
of any part in it. Such a weak, trembling, inefficient 
character, could never have accomplished that awful 
deed; beside which, the doctor said the man was sub¬ 
ject to epileptic fits, and practically incapable of 
the crime. 

Stone did not entirely eliminate the possibility, 
for he had heard of epileptics being possessed of 
homicidal tendencies and also of sudden unexpected 
strength and energy. 

But Taylor was certainly not the queer man Miss 
Busby had seen—and of late, Stone had come to 
believe in that queer man, and he felt pretty sure he 
was the murderer. 

He still felt that the soundest clue was the fact 
that this man had worn a pair of Lawrence’s shoes, 
a newer pair than any found in the cottage, and if 
he could but trace those shoes, he could put his hand 
on the murderer. 

Also, he was partially convinced that the shoes 
had been worn by a woman. To him the evidence for 
this belief seemed strong, and he banked too, on the 
hair net. 

If a woman, she had had some grievance against 
either the brother or sister or both. For choice, the 


270 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


brother, and then the fury of a woman scorned would 
account for the desperate character of the crime. 

Taylor being safely in the hospital, Stone went 
back to Gray Porches and told the story of the white¬ 
faced man and his strange seizure in the under¬ 
taker’s shop. 

As usual his circle of auditors were greatly in¬ 
terested, and expressed comments both sensible 
and absurd. 

“ I think that man’s the criminal,” Mrs. Trent 
said, in her positive way. “ I hope, Mr. Stone, you’ll 
bring him to trial. I’m real sorry I have to go away 
the last of this week, I’d like to see how the matter 
turns out—I hope you’ll keep me posted, Mrs. 
Endicott.” 

“ I will, Mrs. Trent, but I can’t agree with you 
that that foolish-looking individual ever had spunk 
enough to perpetrate that crime! Why, he doesn’t 
look as if he had sense enough to come in when 
it rains!” 

“ He does look like a Boeotian! ” Mrs. Trent said, 
smiling. “ But you never can tell.” 

“ What’s a Boeotian ? ” inquired Miss Lowe, who 
was fond of absorbing stray information. 

“ The natives of Boeotia, in Greece,” Mrs. Trent 
returned, not at all averse to showing off her erudi¬ 
tion, “ are supposed to be born fools, like the Gotham¬ 
ites of England, or the Schildburgers of Germany.” 


THE PEARL PIN 


271 


“ Goodness! ” Miss Lowe exclaimed, “ I never 
heard of any of them.” 

“ There are noodles of nearly every country,” 
Mrs. Trent explained further, “ but the Boeotians are 
slandered, I think. I’ve been there, and I think they 
are as brainy as the average human being.” 

“ Which isn’t saying much! ” Mrs. Endicott 
laughed. “ You’ve travelled everywhere, I do be¬ 
lieve, Mrs. Trent.” 

“ Oh, no, not that. But I have jogged around 
quite a bit, and as soon as I can arrange it, I’m start¬ 
ing off again, around the world this time.” 

“ Visiting Boeotia again?” asked Stone. 

“ No, matters in Greece are too unsettled. I shall 
stick to the beaten tracks, probably go on one of those 
big excursions.” 

“ What do you enjoy most, the scenery or the 
people?” asked Miss Hemingway, who was only 
waiting a chance to tell of her own travels. 

“ Most of all I care for the buildings,” Mrs. 
Trent returned. “The cathedrals, temples, castles 
—all that sort of thing. I’m fond of architecture—” 

“ Foreign architecture is all right,” Miss Lura 
Endicott broke in, “ but what a pity we have none 
worthwhile in this country! ” 

“ Oh, how can you say so? ” Mrs. Trent cried. 
“ Why, we have lots of splendid examples! The Lin¬ 
coln Memorial, the Arlington Amphitheatre, the pub- 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


272 

lie buildings in all our large cities! Why, in 
Chicago—” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean modem stuff,” Lura said, 
scornfully. “I mean the work of past centuries, 
the—” 

“You can’t have age-old architecture in a new 
and young country,” Mrs. Trent said, caustically, 
and seeing there was a spirited discussion toward, 
Stone slipped away. 

He found, in his mail, a letter from his agent 
in Chicago, who was trying to trace the picture of 
Nevin Lawrence when he was a young man of about 
twenty. Had the quest been successful the man 
would have telegraphed Stone, as it was he was still 
searching. 

He wrote that the firm of photographers who had 
taken the picture had long ago passed out of exist¬ 
ence. But there were still hopes of finding some 
later photographer, who had taken over that old 
stock, and might have the records, or, he hoped he 
might find someone who recognized the likeness. 

Also, he stated, that all endeavors to locate Nevin 
Lawrence or Mrs. Sayre had failed utterly. No old 
or new directories or telephone books gave either 
name. No large shops had the names on their lists 
of charge accounts or transient customers. 

No churches had them listed in their congrega¬ 
tions. No libraries numbered them among their 


THE PEARL PIN 


273 


subscribers. No clubs showed their names as 
members. 

Altogether it did not look as if they had ever 
lived there. Yet, Chicago was a big city, and they 
need not have been prominent people. 

Still, Stone thought, people of their standing and 
mental caliber, would have left some tiny footprint 
on the sands of time, even in a metropolis. 

Which brought him back to the notion that Law¬ 
rence was an assumed name. Possibly Sayre was 
too, but his thoughts always gave her the benefit 
of a doubt, and he held it more likely that the man 
was the transgressor, if either, and the woman stood 
by him in love and loyalty. 

He went over to Woodbine and set up a new 
search among Lawrence’s belongings. But all his 
clothing, brushes, trunks—everything that showed 
cause for name or initials, was marked with his name 
or with N. L. 

The same way in Mrs. Sayre’s case. All her 
lingerie, her trinkets, her books, showed her name 
or J. S. 

Why then, was her wedding ring marked E. R. ? 

And Stone concluded that the most likely explana¬ 
tion was that it had been her mother’s. 

Elaine Rowland—if there ever had been such a 
person, might well have been her mother—or, her 
husband’s mother. The old-fashioned silver spoon 

18 



274 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


marked Rowland was of an era which would corre¬ 
spond to that idea, and—Stone romanced now— 
perhaps Janet Lawrence was married in haste, owing 
to the exigencies of the war. Her husband had been 
killed in the war, but no one knew how long or short 
a time she had been married to him. 

Anyway, there could be nothing wrong about that 
lovely woman or about her wedding ring. 

Yet, if not, why no picture or souvenir of the 
late Mr. Sayre? 

And then a new thought struck him. Suppose the 
marriage had not been a happy one. Suppose Sayre 
had been cruel to her, and she had no reason to mourn 
him or remember him. 

Oh, what was the use of supposing? He was 
foolish to waste time in it. He must strive harder 
to get information about the past. 

He felt ashamed of himself to progress so slowly. 
Other missing persons had been found, other identi¬ 
ties had been disclosed, other mysteries had been 
cleared up. Surely he was not going to fall down on 
this one, the biggest and most interesting case he had 
ever had to work on! 

And the clues! They were so numerous and so 
utterly unreadable! 

He counted them over in his mind. 

The broken statuette, the missing pearl pin, the 
strangely pulled off wedding ring, the new shoes 


THE PEARL PIN 


275 


like Lawrence’s, the lack of past history, the queer 
man, the books—surely he must learn something 
more from the books! 

He was going stale! No inspiration came to him, 
no ingenious idea occurred to him, no new train of 
thought opened itself up. 

Except for a slight hope of his Chicago agent 
finding out something, he didn’t know which way 
to look. 

Emma Lily came over from Gray Porches. 

“ Well,” she said, breathlessly, “ I’ve found some¬ 
thing! And I brung it straight to you, and don’t 
you think I took it, ’cause I didn’t—I say, I didn’t” 

‘‘What is it, Emma Lily?” Stone was a little 
weary of her eternal suggestions. 

“ Why, it’s this.” Emma Lily held up a pearl 
stickpin. “ Here’s Mr. Lawrence’s pin.” 

Stone woke into life. 

“ Is it? ” he cried, “ is that the missing pin? ” 

“ Sure it is. And where do you s’pose I 
found it? ” 

“ Where?” 

“ Right on Mrs. Endicott’s pincushion.” 

“ Then it can’t be the one.” 

“ Oh, can’t it ? But I know it is—I say, I know 
it is! Why, I know that pin as well as I know one of 
my own! ” 

“ But on Mrs. Endicott’s cushion! ” 


276 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“Oh, good land! Of course, she didn’t put it 
there! I say, she never put it there! It was—what 
do you call it—? planted—I say it was planted.” 

“ Who planted it—you? ” 

“ Oh, hush, don’t be silly! You detectives don’t 
know anything, do you? ” 

“ Not much,” Fleming Stone said, humbly. 

“ Well, then, here’s how it came about. I felt 
that pin had been stole by somebody round about 
here—whether the same one as killed them or not. So 
I thought I’d try a roose to find out—yes, sir, a 
roose. So I did, and this was it: I told right out 
to all the servants and all the boarders too, over at 
Gray Porches, that the police was goin’ to search all 
their belongin’s for that pin. Such a howl as they 
put up. I say, such a howl! I nearly died a laughin’ 
at ’em! ” 

“Ingenious!” Stone’s eyes shone. “Well?” 

“ Well, I could see the boarders was upset as well 
as the servants, an’ they raised a protest—that’s what 
they did, raised a protest. Me, I didn’t say anythin’ 
more, just said I heard it was goin’ to be soon. Well, 
sir, that was last evenin’ and this mornin’ when I 
goes in to make up Mrs. Endicott’s bed, there’s that 
pin a stickin’ on her cushion. Now, of course, the 
vilyun who stole it put it there, ’count o’ bein’ scared.” 

“Of course. Whom do you suspect? ” 

“That’s just it. I dunno—I say I dunno” 


THE PEARL PIN 


277 


Emma Lily looked deeply puzzled. “ You see, Mrs. 
Endicott had just gone down street. She and Mrs. 
Trent they went out for a morning walk, same’s like 
they most always do, and I us’ally takes that time to 
make their beds. And I found it.” 

Stone had not the slightest suspicion of Emma 
Lily’s own innocence in the matter. She was unques¬ 
tionably sincere and truthful, and, too, he knew she 
never would steal from the people she had loved 
so well. 

His thoughts raced back to the morning the mur¬ 
der had been discovered. If only he could have been 
there then! All he knew of it was by hearsay. 

The account had been told him repeatedly, how¬ 
ever, and he knew that Ben Gray had been the first 
on the scene, the first in the bedrooms, after Emma 
Lily had given the alarm, and he wondered if the 
man’s cupidity had led him to catch up the valu¬ 
able pearl, and then, owing to Emma Lily’s hint of 
a police search, if Gray had secretly disposed of 
the incriminating thing by putting it in Mrs. Endi- 
cott’s room. 

Of course, Mrs. Endicott was not to be considered 
as implicated in any way, indeed she was the last one 
to suspect. 

It must have been Gray himself, or some of the 
servants. Stone knew the servants at Gray Porches, 
and they were mostly young girls from the village. 


278 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


But there were also a few men servants and a chore 
boy and two or three women. For all he knew, they 
had—any or all of them—opportunity to enter the 
cottage that morning, when everything was in con¬ 
fusion and excitement and get away with the theft. 

But, he realized, if that were the truth, then it 
amounted to* little as a clue to the murder. The theft 
of the pin, if committed by someone other than the 
greater criminal, helped him not at all. 

“ Emma Lily,” he said, at last, “ take it to the 
police. Take it to Mr. Lewis and tell him your story. 
He can look into that matter—it doesn’t interest me 
especially—and yet—wait a minute, let me see it.” 

“ Be careful,” she said, as he reached out his 
hand for it, “ I picked it up by the pin, so’s not to 
disturb the finger prints on the pearl.” 

Stone stared at her in wonderment. 

“ Emma Lily,” he said, “ you’re a born detective! 
Not one woman in a thousand would have thought 
of that! My, but you’re clever! ” 

“Well, you see, whoever put it in Mrs. Endi- 
cott’s room was the last one to touch it, and that might 
mean something.” 

“ Indeed it might! ” and Stone took the pin 
gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. “ Look 
here, Emma Lily, don’t take this to Lewis just yet, 
leave it with me. I’ll develop the prints on it if there 
are any, and for a day or two I’ll look after it.” 


THE PEARL PIN 


279 


All right, sir,” and she nodded m satisfaction. 
“I won’t say a word about it. If Mrs. Endicott 
knows anything about it, she’ll ask me, and if she 
doesn’t—well, I’ll keep my eyes open, and I bet you 
I can smell out who did that thing—I say, I bet 
you I can! ” 

“ Good! I’d rather have you as an assistant than 
a good many I’ve tried. It may mean nothing at 
all in the long run, and then again it may. Run along, 
Emma Lily, keep your eyes open, and report to me 
when you learn anything. But catch me when you 
can see me alone—if there’s any wrongdoer over at 
the boarding-house, don’t let him or her suspect you’re 
on the trail.” 

“ Trust me for that,” she called back as she 
sped across the lawn. 

That night Stone dined up at Hazel Hill. 

He always enjoyed these occasions, but in this 
instance, he felt a bit chagrined that he had so little 
progress to report. 

“ Of course, Mr. Hazelton,” he said to Amos, 
“ Now that nobody suspects Barker or the little Lee 
girl, you have lost your most poignant interest in 
the matter—” 

“ Oh, I’m possessed of a healthy curiosity,” Amos 
interrupted, “ and in the interests of humanity, I’d 
jolly well like to see the murderer of those people 


280 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


brought to justice. Which way are you looking at 
present ? ” 

“ Backward/’ Stone said, smiling. “ I do wish, 
you’d rack your brain for some word, some speech 
you ever heard from Lawrence or his sister, or some¬ 
thing you ever heard about them, that would give me 
a new direction in which to look.” 

“ I wish I could, but you know, we’re only up 
here summers, and we only met them in a social, 
rather formal way. You can’t glean much about a 
man’s past life that way.” 

“ If, as you think,” Stanhope said to Stone, 
“ Lawrence wanted to keep his past quiet, then I 
don’t suppose you’ll find out anything from any of 
the New Midianites. He was a man who would be 
on his guard, and would not be likely to make a slip. 
I think you’ll have to get your information from 
outside sources.” 

“ Often those outside sources are so hidden in 
obscurity,” Stone said ruefully. “ Never before have 
I felt so utterly baffled, so up against a wall. But 
don’t think for a minute I’m discouraged! No, I’m 
thinking it’s now just that darkest hour before dawn, 
and something will break soon. Why the very fact 
that Lawrence was so secretive here, and that he 
seems to be untraceable in Chicago, proves to me that 
he had a secret of some sort—and, granting a secret, 
I shall find it! Given something to dig for, I can 


THE PEARL PIN 


281 


dig. IPs only when I think perhaps they were just 
the simple, commonplace people they seemed, that 
I am baffled. And I don’t mean they were common¬ 
place people, either, I know too much of their men¬ 
tality for that. But I mean if their lives were as 
sincere and uneventful as their life here made them 
seem, then—well, then I shall be very much mistaken 
and exceedingly disappointed.” 

Stone told these friends of everything he had 
found out. He was not one inclined to secrecy, and 
he hoped their wisdom and judgment might offer 
him a hint which he would be far from disinclined 
to accept. 

But all they could suggest was a further investi¬ 
gation of the strange, white-faced man, called Taylor. 

“ You know,” Stanhope said, reminiscently, “ he 
was on the train the day I came up here. He just 
poked his head in at the door of the car I was in, 
gave one look around and then vanished.” 

“Abruptly?” asked Stone, eagerly. 

“ Yes, decidedly abruptly. As if the sight of me 
scared him off! ” 

“ But he didn’t know you ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I was joking. But he really looked as 
if he had seen somebody that scared him off. He 
gave a comprehensive glance round at the passengers 
and then scooted. But I’ve looked him up more or 


282 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


less, and I can’t think he knew the Lawrences, though 
he is from Chicago.” 

“ He’s interesting to me for that reason,” Stone 
said, meditatively. “ Did you know any one else in 
the car? ” 

“ No,” Stanhope replied, “ but there were three 
women who turned out to be boarders arriving at 
Gray Porches—” 

“ Who?” 

“ Those two maiden ladies, Miss Lowe and Miss 
Hemingway—and Mrs. Trent. There was also a 
very pretty girl, but she went on further. Those were 
the only ones I noticed at all, and that because they 
sat near me.” 

“ H’m,” Stone said, “ did Taylor look toward 
any of those people you mention? ” 

“ I can’t say. As I saw him, he cast a roving 
glance that included everybody in sight, and then 
he disappeared.” 

“ Precipitately? ” 

“ Yes, I should call it that. If he had seen some¬ 
one he wanted to avoid, I think he would have looked 
as he did. But that’s likely my vivid imagination.” 

Dinner over, Stone walked back to the village 
through the pleasant twilight. 

As he passed the hospital, he saw Mrs. Endicott 
and Mrs. Trent coming out. They carried empty 


THE PEARL PIN 283 

baskets, having evidently been there on an errand 
of beneficence. 

He paused to speak to them, and found them both 
in an unnerved and tearful state. 

“ What is the matter? ” he asked, sympathetically. 

“We had a nerve-racking experience,” Mrs. 
Endicott said; “ we visited two or three patients, and 
carried them flowers and jellies, and as we passed the 
room where that awful man is—that white-faced 
man, he screamed for us to come in. So we went 
in, and he immediately became violent—” 

“ Why, he isn’t insane, is he? ” asked Stone. 

“ Not exactly,” Mrs. Trent informed him, “ but 
he might as well be. He yelled at us like a 
crazy man! ” 

“ What did he say? ” 

“ Oh, he was awful! ” Mrs. Endicott shuddered 
and held more firmly to Mrs. Trent’s arm, “ he shook 
his fist in our very faces, and said, * you did it—you 
did it—’ and then he mumbled low—‘ if you don’t tell 
I will—I will—’ ” 

“ Oh, hush,” begged Mrs. Trent, “ that’s just the 
way he spoke! Oh, he was horrible! Why did we 
ever go there ? ” 

“ Come, come, now,” Stone said, cheerily, “ he 
got on your nerves and I don’t wonder. He is a most 
unpleasant sort. You go on home, you two, and 
forget all about it. Don’t mull over it or it will 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


284 

haunt your dreams. He isn’t responsible, you know, 
and he is practically demented, though the doctors 
don’t exactly admit it.” 

The two women went off, and Stone turned in 
at the hospital entrance. This poor, crazed thing 
might give him a hint. 

He had no trouble in gaining admission to the 
room, and advanced toward the white-faced patient 
with a. cheery good evening. 

At sight of him, Taylor trembled violently, and 
seemed about to go into a convulsion. 

“ Go away, please,” whispered the attendant, “ you 
seem to excite him for some reason or other. He 
can’t stand it.” 

Stone withdrew from sight, but secretly watched 
from the doorway. 

“ Who was that? ” the sick man gasped. 

“A friend,” said the nurse, soothingly; “go to 
sleep now.” 

“ Elaine,” said the patient, “ poor, poor Elaine.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

WHO WAS ELAINE? 

Stone stood a few minutes longer, listening to 
the mutterings of the man, himself out of sight. 

He heard only broken and disjointed sentences, 
and repetitions of “ Poor Elaine ” and “ she did it— 
I know she did it,” as the sick man tossed restlessly 
about. 

“ What is the matter with him ? ” Stone asked 
the nurse after he had beckoned her out into the hall. 

“ He is an epileptic,” she returned, “ though not 
a chronic one. I mean, he may go for a long time 
without a seizure, and then some sudden shock or 
excitement will throw him into convulsions again. 
But he is suffering from a nervous breakdown too, 
and is in a pretty bad state.” 

“What’s his name?” asked Stone, “his first 
name ? ” 

“John,” was the reply, and the detective went 
away. 

He felt like one who has been given the scattered 
bits of a jig-sawed picture puzzle, and ordered to put 
them together. Only he felt that he hadn’t all the 
bits, in fact, that he had very few of them. And it 
seemed to him that the most important bits were 
missing. 

But he had one new one. 



285 


286 THE FURTHEST FURY 

John Taylor! He was convinced that this white¬ 
faced man was in some way connected with the Wood¬ 
bine tragedy, but he did not think, as yet, that he was 
the murderer. Surely that helpless, hopeless piece of 
humanity never could have conceived and carried out 
the rather elaborate plan of that murder. 

For Stone still held to his first impression, that 
Miss Busby’s “ queer man ” was the criminal. 

But if John Taylor was mixed up in the affair 
in any way, then Stone was ready to think that he 
might be the J. T. of the wedding ring. 

The detective hadn’t yet fathomed the depths of 
this assumption, but that man haunted the under¬ 
taker’s shop, he had gone to the cottage to look 
at the bodies, he was forever prowling round the 
vicinity, and, most important of all, he babbled of 
Elaine—poor Elaine. 

Stone held that all those intertwined threads could 
not be the result of mere coincidence, there were too 
many of them. Elaine was an uncommon name, it 
was in one of Lawrence’s books, it was on Taylor’s 
tongue, it was the initial of a name in a ring and 
the other initials were his own. 

It was hard for Stone to link up the beautiful 
Mrs. Sayre with this unlikely person, but, he rea¬ 
soned, that the wedding ring was not her own—that 
is, not originally hers—bother that wedding ring, 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 


287 


anyway! He couldn’t make it out! What a fearful 
puzzle this case was! He had never felt so utterly 
at a loss. 

But the only thing to do was to keep on plodding 
in the hope of running up against some direct clue 
or enlightening circumstance. 

He developed the finger print that he found on 
the pearl pin. 

It resulted in a good, clear print, quite evidently 
a final touch, over a mass cf blurred impressions. 

Next, to trace the owner of the thumb that 
made it. 

Stone went to luncheon at Gray Porches, and as 
he sat at the table with the Endicotts and the others, 
he told them of the print, without, however, saying 
where it had been found. 

“ And so,” he said, “ I have to take the finger 
prints of all of you—all the guests, I mean, so that 
I can get the prints of the servants more plausibly, 
for it was doubtless one of the servants who did 
this thing.” 

In the back of Stone’s mind was a lurking sus¬ 
picion of Ben Gray, and this was the way, he thought, 
to get at the truth. 

So the prints were taken, the younger people 
looking on the matter as a lark, the elder ones, rather 
bored by it. 

Mr. Endicott made strenuous objection to giving 


288 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


up his own prints, saying it made him feel like a 
criminal. But his wife told him to behave himself, 
and the gentleman from Boston added his aristo¬ 
cratic finger tips to Stone’s collection. 

It was a tiresome job, and Stone called Lewis in 
to assist him in the mechanical part of it. 

But the matter finished, the result was 
unmistakable. 

The finger print on the pearl stickpin was that 
of Mrs. Trent. 

“ Which gets us nowhere! ” said Stone dis¬ 
gustedly. “Of course, she didn’t steal the pin, but 
she picked it up somewhere or some innocent matter 
like that. You’ll see.” 

And, sure enough, when he questioned Mrs. 
Trent, she laughed mischievously, and said: “I’ve 
been waiting for you! Of course, that’s my thumb 
print on the pearl. I was walking along the hall, on 
my way to join Mrs. Endicott for our walk, and the 
pin lay on the floor in the hall, just outside her 
door. I thought it was Mrs. Endicott’s, and I stepped 
in her room and stuck it in her cushion. I meant to 
speak to her about it when I joined her, but she 
spoke of something else and the matter of the pin 
went out of my mind entirely. I didn’t think it was 
a valuable pin at all, I thought it was an imitation 
pearl.” 

“Where was it?” Stone asked, thoughtfully. 

“ On the hall floor, just outside Mrs. Endicott’s 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 


door. The maid or whoever had it, must have dropped 
it there-—that is, if it is the pin you are looking for. 
Are you sure it is ? ” 

“ Yes,” Stone said, shortly. He was dis¬ 
appointed, for aside from the clear, plain print of 
Mrs. Trent’s thumb, there were only faint and con¬ 
fused marks, which the superimposed print pre¬ 
vented him from identifying. 

“ What is your first name, Mrs. Trent? ” Stone 
asked, abruptly. 

“ Amanda, why? ” she stared at him. 

“ What is Mrs. Endicott’s? ” 

“ Ellen.” 

“ Ellen! not Elaine?” 

“ No, Ellen, I’ve often seen it written. Why, 
Mr. Stone? ” 

“ Nothing,” he smiled apologetically. “ I’m just 
trying to trace a name. Did you ever know anybody 
named Elaine ? ” 

“ Never. I’ve only seen the name in books.” 

“ That’s just where I saw it, in a book.” 

“What book? Whose?” 

“ One of Mr. Lawrence’s,” said Stone, but he 
spoke absent-mindedly and lost interest in the 
conversation. 

“ I say, Mrs. Trent,” he said, suddenly, and with 
a smile that was almost boyish, “ help me out, there’s 
a good fellow. You have more or less detective 
ability. I’ve noticed all the time we’ve been talking 

19 

. 

ft 


290 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


about this case, you give me a bit of advice which 
way to look. Do you think for a minute that some¬ 
body in this house—not a servant—a man, could 
be implicated in that pearl pin theft ? ” 

“Mr. Endicott? ” she gasped, looking horrified. 

“ Oh, no, not Mr. Endicott.” 

“ Then who? speak out—” 

“ Well, Mr. Gray.” 

“ Mr. Gray! No, I don’t think Mr. Gray could 
have taken it—” 

“ He had opportunity—” 

“ Who didn’t ? You weren’t here, Mr. Stone, but 
that first morning, anybody could have ransacked that 
house, before the police came—” 

“ But as a matter of fact, nobody was over there 
except Ben Gray.” 

“ I don’t believe he took it—I’m sure he wouldn’t. 
I’d suspect the servants, or the police themselves be¬ 
fore I’d suspect Mr. Gray. 

“ Probably you’re right. It’s no clue, anyway, 
since the murderer didn’t take it.” 

“Who was the murderer? ” 

“ That queer man Lizzie Busby saw.” 

“ You seem very sure.” 

“ I am sure. At first, I thought Miss Busby made 
that story up. Then I thought the man was Miss 
Busby herself. Now, I deem her innocent and I think 
the queer man was the murderer.” 

“ But tell me, Mr. Stone, you have a sort of sus¬ 
picion of that man in the hospital, haven’t you? ” 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 


291 


“ I can’t help feeling he’s mixed up in the affair, 
somehow, but I can’t think him a murderer, can you ?” 

“ Why not, if he’s in the mystery at all? ” 

“ He’s so weak—not only physically, but gener¬ 
ally ineffective—” 

“ But they say he’s an epileptic, and they are un¬ 
certain creatures. Sometimes they’re almost super¬ 
humanly strong.” 

“ You’ve had experience, then, I never have. Tell 
me more about the symptoms—or effects ? ” 

Mrs. Trent turned away from him. “ No,” she 
said, “ I never had any experience with them. All 
I know is hearsay.” 

She turned to a mirror and adjusted her hat, then 
said a smiling good afternoon to Stone, and went 
down the porch steps. 

He watched her with that gaze of his that seemed 
to see everything and nothing. 

A puff of wind came suddenly and blew off Mrs. 
Trent’s hat. 

With a bound, Stone was down steps and pick¬ 
ing up the hat, brushing it off with coat sleeve, and 
looking at it solicitously. 

“ Oh, it isn’t hurt,” she .smiled at him. “ These 
sport hats will stand rough usage. I ought to use 
a hatpin, but I think it will stay on now.” 

She settled it firmly into place, and with a word 
of thanks for his courtesy she went on. 

Stone drifted over to the Woodbine cottage. 
He was beginning to think that if he didn’t get some 


292 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


word from those photographs in Chicago, which was 
his last hope, he might have to give up the case. 

At the bottom of his heart, he knew he’d never 
give it up, but he was very downhearted about it. 

Over and over he said to himself, “ E. R. from 

J. T.” 

Then he would add, Elaine Rowland from John 
Taylor, and then he would laugh at himself for a 
silly fool. 

How could that be the right wording? If it 
were, how could those people link up with the case? 

Well, he argued, if it was Mrs. Sayre’s mother’s 
ring—but that would make the Taylor man 
her father! Too preposterous! 

Suppose then, it wa^ the ring of Mr. Sayre’s 
mother, but her husband’s name couldn’t have been 
Taylor—unless she married twice—no, that was all 
wild guessing. But the man was implicated—maybe 
a brother—ah, there was a way to look. Suppose 
the John Taylor in the hospital was a son of the 
John Taylor of the ring—no, that led nowhere. 

Stone put it to himself. Did he or did he not 
suspect the hospital man of being the murderer? 

He did not. But he did think that man was 
implicated, or at least knew more than he had told. 

It was hopeless to go there and ask to talk to 
him, it would not be allowed. So he must think it out. 

Now, the fact that the man babbled of Elaine, 
that his initials were in the ring on Mrs. Sayre’s 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 


293 


finger, and that there was the name Elaine in one 
of Lawrence’s books, were enough to connect White- 
face with the matter. He could not be eliminated. 

And he had been among the first to call at the 
cottage after the murder; he had prowled about the 
vicinity ever since, and finally, he had screamed “ you 
did it! you did it! ” to the ladies who had called at 
the hospital. 

Stone didn’t take this to mean that he accused 
either Mrs. Endicott or Mrs. Trent, but was merely 
shrieking in delirium. Then he followed that up 
with “ Poor Elaine,” and a further “ she did it.” 

Again, Stone did not think this meant Elaine 
did it—yet—well, if the man was speaking of the 
murder, at least, it indicated a woman did it. 

But was he speaking of the murder? 

Stone thought he was. 

Stone thought the murderer was a woman. 

Stone thought he knew which way to look for 
that woman. 

But it was so astounding, so startling that he had 
to think it all over and over again before he could 
realize it. 

“ Straws show which way the wind blows,” he 
said to himself, “ but—” and then he chuckled and 
wound up his soliloquy by remarking silently, “ It’s 
an ill wind that blows nobody good.” 

Which proverbial wisdom was decidedly com¬ 
forting to his perturbed mind. 



294 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


“ In that case,” he mused starting up as at a new 
thought, “ there’s a very remarkable colored person 
in the woodpile: I’ll hunt him out.” 
c Over to Woodbine cottage he went again, and 
with a new idea in his brain, a new glint in his ob¬ 
servant eye, he scanned the two bedrooms. 

“ Of course,” he said, nodding confidently, “ of 
course. Right. Certainly. Exactly so.” 

These satisfied comments were addressed to vari¬ 
ous articles of furniture and were accompanied by a 
dawning smile of understanding which grew con¬ 
tinually more sure. 

He paid especial attention to the chintz-covered 
armchairs in both rooms, even going so far as to 
thrust his hand down between their cushions and 
examine the bits of dust he extracted. 

He ran over the books again, nodding his head 
as he noticed marked passages or pages worn by use. 

He put his head out of the window, and seeing 
Emma Lily, as he had hoped to do, he called 
her over. 

She came obediently, being used to these 
summons. 

“ I’m getting at the root of the matter,” he 
announced, looking at her seriously. “ Emma Lily, 
you know or suspect something you have never 
mentioned.” 

His gaze enlightened her, and she began to trem¬ 
ble violently. 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 


295 


“ No equivocation now,” he said, with positive 
sternness, “ you must tell me. What did you see? ” 
They were in Lawrence’s bedroom, and as Stone 
looked about the woman he questioned began to cry. 

“ Listen, Emma Lily,” he spoke kindly, “ you’ll 
have to tell, sooner or later, since I’m getting wise to 
it. So tell me, as it will be easier than telling the 
police people.” 

“ Well, it was only once—I saw her bedroom 
slipper in here.” 

“ She might have dropped it off when she came 
in to say good night to her brother—” 

“Yes—said Emma Lily,” she might—I say 
she might —” 

“ Well, go on.” 

“ Well, once, I heard him call her something—” 

“ What?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know—something like sweetheart. 
But they were very fond of each other—” 

“ Yes,” Stone said, dryly, “ they were. Go on.” 
“ Well, it was only a few times—and I might have 
been mistaken—I say, I might have been mistaken—” 
“You were not mistaken. That’s enough—for 
now, Emma Lily. Go along now, and don’t open 
your mouth about this to anybody, you hear? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” and stifling her sobs, she stumbled 
blindly away. 

Stone walked briskly down to the village, and 
went to the home of George Bailey, who had been 
Mr. Lawrence’s chauffeur. 


296 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


After a short but serious interview with him, 
Stone went up to Hazel Hill. 

“ I’m getting somewhere/' he announced, as he 
and Hazelton senior and Dave Stanhope settled down 
for a talk. “ But it's the last place I expected to 
get to.” 

“ New developments? ” asked Amos. 

“ Yes, and yet, well, I don’t want to pat myself, 
but I suspected it from the first. But it was so pre¬ 
posterous, so diametrically opposed to all the evi¬ 
dence I could get hold of, that I laid the idea aside, 
but now, I’ve more than enough evidence to cor¬ 
roborate it fully.” 

“ Tell it out,” said Stanhope, all attention. 

“ Well, here it is in a nutshell. Did it never dawn 
on you that perhaps Lawrence and Mrs. Sayre were 
not brother and sister? ” 

“What?” Hazelton looked utterly bewildered, 
and Stanhope stared at Fleming Stone in dismay. 

That s the truth,” Stone said. “ I could scarce 
believe it myself at first, but now I’ve no doubt of it.” 

“What were they then?” exclaimed Amos, 

“ married? ” 

“ No,” and Stone’s eyes were pityingly sad, “ they 
were lovers.” 

“ No! ” Amos almost shouted, “ I won’t believe 
it! That dear woman—that fine man—never! ” 

“ Yes > it’s true,” Stone assured him. “ But don’t 
judge them too quickly nor too harshly. We don’t 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 297 

know what lay behind their wrecked lives, and, at 
least they have paid the price.” 

“ Tell me all you know,” said Amos, who was 
greatly moved. 

“ When I first began to investigate,” Stone said, 
“ I had a faint suspicion that they might not be 
brother and sister. But when everybody was so 
devoted to them, when there was no breath against 
them, when they seemed so simple and straightfor¬ 
ward in their lives, I concluded I was wrong. So 
I worked away on the brother and sister theory. But 
things didn’t fit. They were only little things, but 
like straws, they showed the way the wind blew.” 

“For instance?” asked Stanhope. 

“Well, the very way Mrs. Sayre, as I was told, 
looked after her brother’s comforts. Keeping his 
room so daintily fresh—flowers and all that—it 
seemed a little excessive for a sister’s attention. Then 
their utter absorption in one another. They cared 
little for company, and were happy alone together, 
going off for all-day picnics, and sitting in each 
other’s rooms.” 

“ How did you know they did sit in each other’s 
rooms ? ” said Dave. 

“ I noticed that almost the first thing. In each 
bedroom were two easy chairs, soft cushioned in 
chintz. They were, all four, equally worn and ap¬ 
parently much used. Now, unless they sat together, 
only one chair in each room would have been so 


298 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


much worn. I don’t mean worn out, but you can 
tell when a chair is much sat in. I deduced an un¬ 
usual amount of time spent together for an ordinary 
brother and sister. But I learned that the commu¬ 
nity held that these two were not an ordinary brother 
and sister, but very affectionate as well as very supe¬ 
rior, so I wavered again in my conclusions. 

“ Then, the books. That house is full of books 
of love poems, and romances. Why, on Mrs. Sayre’s 
bedside table is a copy of the Sonnets from the Portu¬ 
guese, the most lover-like book in the world. Now 
she can’t read such things in devoted memory of her 
husband, for she has no picture or memento of him 
in the whole place. She certainly had no other lover, 
for her life seemed to be an open book to the whole 
village. So, that was indicative. Likewise, in his 
room were sentimental books; and yet, in no case 
trashy, or of a low grade of literature. 

“ I n each room the only portrait was a photo¬ 
graph of the other—all very well for a brother and 
sister, but not usual, to say the least.” 

“ Why, any brother and sister would have each 
other’s picture—” Amos broke in. 

“Yes, but they weren’t brother and sister. I 
interviewed Emma Lily, and though she hated to do 
it, she acknowledged that she had seen some things 
that made her suspicious. She tried to ignore it, 
and did, but she had to own up. Once or twice it 
was Mrs. Sayre’s bedroom slipper left in Lawrence’s 
room—again he called her 4 sweetheart.’ Nothing- 


WHO WAS ELAINE? 


299 

much, you will say, but the cumulation of these things 
points to the truth. Then I went to see Bailey, who 
was their chauffeur. He was reluctant to tell, but I 
made him own up that when he was driving them, 
he had sometimes seen in his mirror, actions, hand¬ 
clasps, or fond looks, that made him surmise there 
was a different relation between them than that of 
brother and sister.” 

“ Oh, stop! ” Hazelton cried. “ I can’t believe 
it—I don’t want to believe it! That lovely woman—” 
“ Don’t blame her unheard,” Stone said, very 
gravely. “You don’t know what she suffered, what 
she must have suffered from her anomalous position. 
The fear of discovery must have been always in her 
mind, the sorrow of the necessity for the double life 
—remember to whom much was forgiven because she 
loved much. Only a great and an overwhelming love 
could have brought about the circumstances.” 
“And Lawrence—he just adored her!” 

“Of course he did—and she adored him. That’s 
the crux of the situation. Now, they, of course, 
lived under assumed names—” 

“ Look here, Mr. Stone,” Amos spoke sharply, 
“ don’t you go ahead on this assumption unless you 
are positive—unless you can prove what you say.” 

“ I prove it to my own satisfaction by the word of 
Emma Lily and George Bailey,” Stone answered, 
steadily. “ They told me they had seen things and 
heard things which made it impossible to doubt that 
the pair were lovers. Now, since they forsook all 


300 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


honor, all reputation, all family and friends to bury 
themselves in this little village and live for each other 
alone, shall we respect their secret and let the whole 
matter drop into oblivion—” 

“No, a thousand times no!” cried Hazelton. 
“ More than ever they must be avenged and their 
murderer sent to his doom.” 

“Who is the murderer?” asked Stanhope, 
suddenly. 

“ Miss Busby’s queer man,” replied Stone, confi¬ 
dently. “ I’ve never wavered from that decision. I 
thought at one time it might have been Miss Busby 
herself, but when I learned how she loved Lawrence, 
I knew she never could have killed him.” 

“ Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Amos 
said, sententiously. 

“ I know, and that’s why I thought Lizzie Busby 
might have reached the furthest fury. But I aban¬ 
doned that idea.” 

“That’s why Mrs. Sayre was so stand-offish,” 
Dave said, thoughtfully. “As a beautiful young 
widow, lots of the men here admired her, but though 
always kind and courteous, she favored none 
of them.” 

“ Lawrence too,” added Amos. “ All the women 
in town set their caps for him, and he paid them 
no more attention than he paid Lizzie Busby. I 
guess you must be right, Mr. Stone.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

THE TRUTH AT LAST 

Barker Hazelton came in just then, and the 
whole story was related to him. 

To the surprise of the others, he did not seem 
amazed at the revelation. 

“ We suspected it,” he finally admitted. “ That 
night, you know, the night of the murder, Gladys 
went over there late, to see if she could help me 
about that foolish club business, and she saw them 
through the window, when she looked in. They were 
in each other’s arms, and she knew it was no 
brotherly embrace! ” 

“ But, embracing before an open window! ” ex¬ 
claimed Stanhope. 

“ It wasn’t open,” Barker said, “ there was only 
a bit of a peephole beneath the drawn-down shade. 
Glad peeped in, because she wanted to see whether 
to go in or not, and when she saw that, she 
turned back and went straight home again. She told 
me about it next day, but she never told anyone 
else, not even her mother. And of course, I never 
said anything. But I thought it over a lot, and it 
explained a great many things. You see Mrs. Sayre 

was always so offish with Gladys mother. Nice and 

301 


302 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


chummy—she didn’t snub her because she was a 
dressmaker or anything like that, but she wouldn’t 
talk about the war—although they were both war 
widows.” 

“Of course,” Stone said, “ both Lawrence and 
Mrs. Sayre were undoubtedly using assumed names. 
This opens up a wide field for conjecture. Also, of 
course, Nevin Lawrence is the name he has written 
under—at least, ever since he has been up here. 
Nobody knows whether he wrote before or not. 
Myself, I think he used to be an architect, for in his 
attic is a trunk full of really fine architectural books 
and prints. If he gave up architecture and took to 
writing stories, and changed his name and settled in 
this obscure village, it is probable that he considered 
himself fairly safe from discovery, as he, in fact 
was, until now.” 

“And then who killed him?” queried Barker, 
showing his excitement. 

“ Someone in his past life,” Stone said, decidedly. 

“ I say,” Barker cried, “ is that what you wrote 
on that paper dad put in the safe ? ” 

“ Look and see,” said Stone, smiling grimly. 

Amos Hazelton produced the paper in question 
and read aloud: 

“ I surmise that the murdered man and woman 
are not brother and sister, but are lovers. And I 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


303 


surmise that the murderer is someone who has been 
wronged or scorned by one or both of the victims.” 

“ By jinks! ” Barker exclaimed, “ you hit it first 
clip, didn’t you? You’re a wonder, Mr. Stone.” 

“ But I wavered from that conclusion several 
times,” Stone admitted. “ It didn’t seem possible to 
get corroborative evidence. And my first thought of 
it was based only on the type of books they both 
affected, almost entirely books of deep and roman¬ 
tic sentiment.” 

“ And only now you’ve found the corrobora¬ 
tion? ” asked Stanhope. 

“ Yes, only lately. I noticed particles of cigarette 
ashes and specks of tobacco in the crevices of both 
those arm chairs in Mr. Lawrence’s room. I noticed 
two ash-trays in each room. Oh, everything in that 
house fairly cries aloud the occupancy of two 
people devotedly attached, and not a brother and sis¬ 
ter, however affectionate. 

“ And I found out from Emma Lily, how Mrs. 
Sayre consulted Lawrence’s tastes in food and cook¬ 
ing; in household ways and means; in everything 
his wishes were deferred to, and not with merely a 
sisterly good nature, but with the joyous slavery of 
a loving woman. It was this atmosphere of devotion 
everywhere that made it possible for me to aban¬ 
don that brother and sister idea entirely. But now, 
our work is only begun. To find the murderer is no 



304 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


easy task, though we now have a motive—that is, in 
a general way.” 

“ What do you mean? ” asked Barker. 

“ Only that presumably the murder was com¬ 
mitted by the man Mrs. Sayre forsook to run away 
with Lawrence, or the woman he forsook to run 
away with her. We can’t blink the fact that there 
was an obstacle to their marriage, either in the fact 
that he already had a wife or she a husband. 
Knowing the class of people they were, can we doubt 
they would have preferred to be decently married had 
it been possible. And what else could have prevented ? 
They were not young enough to be under parental 
discipline—” 

“ Maybe she wasn’t married at all,” suggested 
Stanhope, “ but he was. So she pretended she was a 
widow, for convention’s sake, and that’s why her wed¬ 
ding ring didn’t bear her own initials.” 

“ It may be,” said Stone, “ but I think more likely 
she had been married, and that her ring bore the 
initials of her real name, which was not Janet Sayre, 
and never was Janet Lawrence.” 

“ What do you suppose it was? ” asked Amos. 

“ Elaine Rowland,” said Stone, a little 
abstractedly. 

“ E. R. from J. T.,” said Stanhope, reminis¬ 
cently. “ Who was J. T. ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Stone said, slowly, “ but I can’t 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 305 

help linking it up with John Taylor, your white¬ 
faced man.” 

“ Of course! ” Stanhope cried. “ But, that hor¬ 
rible creature the husband of that lovely woman—” 

“ Why not? That might explain her running t off 
with Lawrence—we must continue to call him that 
till we can find out his real name. No wonder my man 
in Chicago couldn’t trace a photograph of Nevin 
Lawrence! ” 

“ What a moil! ” exclaimed Amos Hazelton. 
“ Where are you going to begin to unravel it? ” 

“ With the white-faced man, if I can get access 
to him. I’ve something to work on now, if I can get 
him in a quiet interval. If he’s still ranting I sha’n’t 
attempt it.” 

“ Mrs. Sayre always said she didn’t smoke,” 
Barker said; “ and she advised Gladys not to.” 

“ That’s not surprising,” Stone said. “ She built 
up a reputation for conservative, correct behavior. 
And if when alone with Lawrence, she wanted to 
smoke with him, it was merely for the mutual cozi¬ 
ness of it. You see they had to be eternally on their 
guard before every one, neighbors, servants and all. 
Small wonder they were caught now and then. The 
chauffeur had many opportunities of catching them 
off guard, and once his suspicions were aroused, he 
would naturally watch them in the motor car mirror. 
But he was loyal to them, and never breathed their 
20 


* 


306 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


secret. As also was Emma Lily, who adored them 
both” 

“ You don’t think Miss Busby knew of it? ” 

“ Oh, no. She never suspected, or she wouldn’t 
have thrown herself at Lawrence’s head as she did. 
Another thing. Lawrence had Mrs. Sayre’s picture 
in his watch case. That is not usual for a brother.” 

“No,” Stanhope assented. “ Oh, I can have no 
further doubts. But where do you get the name 
Elaine Rowland? ” 

“ Pure invention,” Stone smiled. “ I saw the 
words ‘ From Elaine ’ in a book of love sonnets in 
his roorfi, and there was a very old silver spoon in 
the pantry marked Rowland. I just imagined Elaine 
was her name, and Rowland her own family name. 
Like as not I’m wrong about that. Only, when I spoke 
the name Elaine Rowland to Taylor, as he stood in 
Crouch’s shop he gave a sharp scream and fell in a 
sudden convulsion.” 

“ Then he knew the name, whether it was hers 
or not. Maybe it was the name of Lawrence’s wife.” 

“ Maybe it was. But I linked up that lover’s book 
with his sweetheart rather than with his neglected 
wife.” 

“ Pretty daring thing for them to do, come here 
and settle in a decent community,” growled Amos 
Hazelton, who was beginning to resent the wrong. 

“ Now, dad,” Barker said, “ let the dead past bury 
its dead. They were always kind and courteous to us. 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


307 


We’re not the keepers of their morals, and anyway, 
they’ve gone to their final judgment.” 

“ That’s right boy. I’ll say no more on that 
score. Now, Mr. Stone, can I do anything to help 
you ? If not, I think I’ll run up to the mountains and 
join my wife for a few days. I’d rather tell her all 
about this myself, than have her read it in the papers.” 

“ No, thank you, Mr. Hazelton. If I need help, 
I’ll gladly call on Stanhope here, or on Barker. You 
go ahead, and stay a while with Mrs. Hazelton.” 

“You see, Mr. Stone,” Stanhope said, as he and 
the detective went back to the village, in one of the 
Hazelton cars, “ John Taylor must have known Mrs. 
Sayre pretty well to have known of her broken wrist.” 

“ I thought that at first,” Stone returned, “ but 
I realized that he could have learned of that from 
the doctor who examined the body. He would have 
noticed the break and might have mentioned it. Same 
way with the scar on her shoulder. Taylor’s wail 
of 4 her pretty white shoulder ’ or whatever it was 
may have been merely imaginative regret. I thought 
at first it indicated an intimate personal knowledge, he 
might even have been her husband, but now I see it 
may not be so. Of course, he could be her brother 
—o r —but that’s all conjecture. But one thing is 
certain, there is an Elaine Rowland, and Taylor 
knows her. So whether it is Mrs. Sayre s real name, 
or is some other identity, we must find out first of all. 


308 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


They went to the hospital, hoping to find Taylor 
quiet and willing to talk. 

But to their amazement, and Stone’s deep chagrin, 
they were told that Taylor had disappeared. 

“ He got away secretly,” detailed the nurse. “ We 
never thought of guarding him, and he watched his 
chance, dressed and sneaked off. You see between 
the attacks he was practically a well man.” 

“Too well altogether!” growled Stone. “I’m 
utterly disgusted, Stanhope, at my own stupidity— 
my culpable carelessness. I might have known he’d 
do just that very thing! Now, we’ll never find him. 
And he’s the man we must have.” 

“ Go to his home—where he stays, over in Beech- 
field,” Stanhope suggested. 

“ He won’t be there,” said Stone, dejectedly. 

They telephoned over, and learned that he was 
not there and hadn’t been for two days. They didn’t 
know where he was. Yes, all his belongings were 
there. 

“ Will you go over there, Stanhope, and give his 
things the once over? I’ve other things to attend 
to that won’t keep.” 

“ Willingly,” said Dave, and set off at once on 
the errand. 

Stone went to the express office. 

“ Will you tell me,” he said, “ what parcels were 
sent off and by whom on this date or very soon 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


309 


after? ” He showed the dates of the few days follow¬ 
ing the murder. 

But though the records were carefully exact, no 
parcel was listed that had the smallest interest for 
Fleming Stone. 

He tried the post office. 

But no record was kept of the consignees of the 
packages sent by parcel post. 

Yet, some-coaxing and cajolery, aided and abetted 
by some cash in hand brought about a remarkable 
quickening of the memory of the little old maid who 
was the postmistress, and Stone went away, elated, 
and made for the telegraph office. 

Then he went back to Gray Porches. 

He waited till supper time, and then, by dint of 
Emma Lily’s assistance, he found opporunity to 
slip unobserved into one of the bedrooms and make a 
thorough if hasty search. 

The lynx-eyed woman stood guard in the upper 
hall, ready to warn him if anyone came upstairs. But 
they were all at supper on the porches, and he had 
a clear sweep. 

Into a bureau drawer he poked his inquisitive 
hand. Into a handbag, a suitcase, several boxes. 

At last he found what seemed to please him, and 
opening a little jewel casket he took out a ring. 

Calmly pocketing the trinket, he went noncha¬ 
lantly downstairs and took his place at the table. 

“ Isn’t it too bad,” Miss Lowe exclaimed, “ Mrs. 


310 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


Trent has to go down to the city on the night train! 
She had a letter and she has to start right off.” 

That is too bad,” said Stone. “ No bad news, 
I trust.” “ No,” Mrs. Trent said, looking worried. 

My sister is sailing for Europe to-morrow morning, 
unexpectedly, and wants to see me before she leaves.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said Stone, pleasantly, “ I have a 
friend sailing to-morrow too. What steamer is your 
sister's? ” 

The I really don't remember. I'm not sure 
she mentioned the name. I read the letter only 
hastily.” 

“ Took it up,” urged Stone. “ If they’re on the 
same boat, I'm sure your sister would like to know 
my friend—she’s a charming woman.” 

“ I look it up after supper,” Mrs. Trent re¬ 
turned, and Stone devoted his attention to his plate. 

He finished his meal before the others, and ex¬ 
cusing himself, he sauntered away, to smoke a cigar 
on another porch. 

A few moments later, Emma Lily came to the 
table and handed a note to Mrs. Trent. 

After reading it Mrs. Trent looked smilingly 
around her. 

“ 1 sha’n’t have to go down to-night, after all,” 
she said, “my sister has postponed sailing for a 
week.” 

Stone sauntered over to the Woodbine cottage. It 
was still daylight and he went round the house, col- 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


311 


lecting the few clues he had found there at differ¬ 
ent times. 

These were only the two silver spoons and the 
book marked “ From Elaine.” 

Then he went downstairs. 

Almost at that same moment, Emma Lily again 
approached Mrs. Trent. “ You’re wanted on the tele¬ 
phone, ma’am,” she said, and then stood respectfully 
by, while Mrs. Trent answered the summons. 

“ Hello,” she said. 

And, after a moment, she exclaimed, “ Oh, my 
heavens! ” following the exclamation quickly with a 
little laugh and a taunting. “ Don’t you wish you 
knew ? ” 

Another pause, and then Emma Lily heard her 
say, “well, laundry—if you must know.” 

“ Yes, to Chicago, why not? Who are you any¬ 
way? Oh, a postal inspector. Well, it’s all right, no 
matter if it is lost—it wasn’t of very great value. 
No, I won’t put in a claim.” 

Stone walked from the cottage over to Gray 
Porches again. It was getting dusk now, and as he 
went, he thought he saw a figure skulking under the 
trees, in the shadow of some shrubbery. 

He deflected his course in that direction and was 
not oversurprised to see White-face himself, trem¬ 
bling as he shuffled about. 

“ Hullo,” Stone said, cheerily, “ now don’t evap¬ 
orate again. I want you, Mr. Taylor, and if you 


312 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


won’t come willingly, I’ll hold you as a material 
witness.” 

“ Now wait a minute,” the man whined, “ I 
want to see somebody in at Gray Porches. I want to 
see her alone.” 

“ I know whom you mean,” Stone said, “ and 
you can see her, but you can’t see her alone. See 
here, do you recognize this? ” 

He drew from his pocket a ring. 

“ Lord, yes, it’s hers.” He began to shake again, 
and Stone watched him warily. 

“ Come along Taylor,” he said, “ you hang onto 
yourself for an hour and then go to pieces if you 
want to. But do keep up for an hour. Here we’ll 
go in the back way, and sneak up to my room and 
I’ll give you a drink. Now, no shambling, walk 
upright.” 

The two men followed out Stone’s programme; 
Stone snatched up a telegram that had been placed on 
his chiffonier in his absence, and then they went 
down stairs. 

The young people were still on the porches, but 
the elders had come inside and were proposing a 
game of auction. 

Stone told Emma Lily to find Ben Gray and fetch 
him in, and at the same moment, Lewis appeared at 
the front door. 

The women in the living room looked up with 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


313 


surprise as so many men entered at once, and Stone 
asked everybody to be seated. 

He stationed himself at the door, and Lewis un¬ 
ostentatiously placed himself near the open French 
window. 

“ I am truly sorry,” Stone said, and his voice 
told of his sincere grief, “ but I have the painful duty 
before me of exposing the identity of the murderer 
of your neighbors next door.” 

He paused, and then said, “ will it be necessary for 
me to call the name or does the criminal prefer to 
make a confession? ” 

All eyes turned on John Taylor, who sat on the 
edge of a chair, his cringing attitude and trembling 
hands proclaiming his agitation. 

Had Stone not fortified him with a strong drink, 
he would have fallen to the floor. 

Ben Gray clenched his fists and started toward 
the white-faced man but Stone restrained him. 

“ Don’t make a mistake, Mr. Gray,” he said, 
“Mr. Taylor is not the criminal.” 

A thrill of surprise ran through the assembly, 
and at that moment Dave Stanhope returned. 

Seeing how matters stood he merely sank into a 
chair near the door and awaited developments. 

“ As there seems to be no confession forthcom¬ 
ing,” Stone went on, slowly, “ I will have to state 
the truth myself.” 

“ It is said,” he went on, “ that Hell hath no fury 



314 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


like a woman scorned, and this, truly the furthest 
fury known to the human heart, has in this instance 
led to murder.” 

Lizzie Busby, who was in the centre of the 
crowded room, opened wide eyes. Were they about 
to suspect her again? She had thought that was 
all over. 

But with a sudden cry of despair, Mrs. Trent 
rose from her seat and said, “ yes, I may as well 
confess. I did it. I killed my husband, Herbert 
Trent, whom you knew as Nevin Lawrence. I killed 
Elaine Taylor, who lived with him under the name 
of Janet Sayre.” 

She looked like an avenging goddess, her face 
flaming with wrath, her gray hair a little disordered, 
escaping from its net, her eyes darting vengeance as 
she sought to exculpate herself. 

“ Who wouldn’t do it ? Who among you wouldn’t 
kill a husband who deserted you for a younger and 
more beautiful woman? For two years I searched 
for the guilty pair. For two years they hid from 
me up here in this secluded place and under false 
names. 

“ Love in a cottage! A Fool’s Paradise! But 
I found them—and by Herbert’s own carelessness. 
He was an architect, a good one, and he gave up 
his profession to run away with her. Then to sup¬ 
port them he wrote stories. Ah, that was his un¬ 
doing. For when I read a story of his—two months 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


315 


ago, about Boeotia, and the Tanagra figurines found 
there, when I read the description of that place in 
Greece—where we had travelled together—I knew no 
hand but his could have written it. There were little 
allusions that only he and I could understand. It was 
foolish of him to do this, but everyone forgets some¬ 
times, and when I read it, I laid my plans. I planned 
his death—not hers—if she had staid in her bed 
she would have been alive to-day. I did not want 
to kill her—but she came running at me, and fought 
like a tiger. I had to kill her or be killed by her. I 
tore off her wedding ring, the ring she had disgraced, 
she clutched for it, and I shot her. It was her life or 
mine, she would have gladly seen me in the chair! ” 

“ That is all.” Mrs. Trent suddenly fell into a 
chair, almost collapsed. “ He will tell you the rest, 
she pointed to Taylor, and as she lost consciousness 
Mr. and Mrs. Gray assisted her from the room. 

“You are, of course, surprised to learn,” Stone 
went on, “ that Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Sayre, as you 
knew them, were not brother and sister. I have no 
right or reason to ask your clemency toward them, 
but I will remind you that though they broke the laws 
of God and man, they paid the price. Let him that 
is without sin cast the first stone.” 

The women were weeping now, the men sat silent, 
and then John Taylor spoke: 

“ It was an awful thing for her to do, awful! ” 
he jerked his head in the direction Mrs, Trent had 


316 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


gone, “ but she was the scorned woman and her fury 
knew no bounds. She was always like that. I’ve 
known her for years, and she was always revengeful 
and full of fury at any wrong done to her. 

“ I knew it was her work, right away. I saw it 
all. She planned it awful careful, she came here, 
bringing a pair of shoes her husband had left be¬ 
hind when he ran away with my wife. Likewise, his 
old hat and raincoat. I knew it all, and I’ve seen her 
since and she as good as admitted it. I tried to make 
her give me money to go away and not tell on her, 
but she wouldn’t and now she’s been found out. But 
she wasn’t no wife for that man—her, twelve years 
older’n him, and of such different nature, well come 
to that, I wasn’t the right husband for Elaine, either. 
We were all sorted out wrong. Elaine only married 
me because her father made her—but never mind 
about that. I forgive her, free and ample. But Mrs. 
Trent, she couldn’t forgive Herbert, not if she suf¬ 
fered hell for a thousand years for killing him. Yes, 
it was the scorn that did it. She’s a proud woman, 
and from the first, when Herbert began to admire 
Elaine, Amanda got restive right away. 

“ And those two fought against it! Yes, I’ll give 
’em credit for that. Elaine’d beg me to take her away 
where she’d never see Herbert again, and Herbert 
he fought like a man against doing anything 
wrong. But I guess it was too strong for ’em, they 
couldn’t hold out against it, so they just gave in and 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


317 


ran away. Well, there’s the story. Me, I forgive 
my wife and—I hope you all do.” 

The simplicity of the man was touching. He 
accepted his own inferiority, his wife’s wrong doing, 
his friend’s treachery, all with a spirit of gentle for¬ 
giveness that made his strange white face look al¬ 
most glorified. 

“ I’ll be going now,” he said; “ I want to think 
things over by myself a little. If you want me I’ll 
be right there, over Beechfield way.” 

He shuffled away, and there was a silence. 

Stone, nervously upset by the whole harrowing 
scene, whispered to Stanhope that he’d go back to 
Hazel Hill for the night with him. He. could stand no 
more of the questions that he saw were imminent. 

Lewis was in charge, so they started off. 

Amos had gone to the mountains, but Barker 
was there, and the three sat down for a good-night 
smoke. 

“Tell me a few missing links,” Stanhope said; 
“how did you come to suspect Mrs. Trent in the 
first place? ” 

“ Two things,” Stone said, “ that hair net you 
found, and which I couldn’t tack on to anybody else, 
and the way she pulled her hat down on her head 
yesterday. It blew off and I picked it up for her. 
She laughed, said she had no hatpin, and pulled the 
hat down over her ears with exactly the same gesture 
Miss Busby had said the queer man used. You know 


318 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


I thought that queer man was a woman all the time. 
Because of the big head. A man doesn’t have such 
a big head as to be noticeable in a dim light, and so 
I felt is must be a woman concealing her hair. 

“ Then there were lots of other clues, as soon as 
I knew in which main direction to look. Mrs. Trent 
took the pearl stickpin—she doubtless considered it 
her property as her husband had owned it. Perhaps 
she gave it to him. She smashed the Tanagra figure 
in her fury, because it was a memento of their trip 
together to Bceotia, and she resented its presence in 
this other woman’s house. Can’t you imagine her 
fury at seeing all the pretty home appointments of the 
guilty pair, and realizing how she had been scorned? ” 

“ Indeed, yes,” declared Stanhope. “ In one way 
I can’t blame her—” 

“ Oh, now, now,” cried Barker, “of course the 
guilty pair, as you call them, were guilty, but there 
are mitigating circumstances. Doubtless their great, 
deathless love, to their minds, glorified and sanctified 
the wrong they did. It isn’t a unique case. How 
about George Eliot—” 

“ Never mind the ethics, now, Barker,” Stan¬ 
hope said. “ That’s a matter of opinion anyhow. 
Anything else, Stone ? ” 

“ A few things. Mrs. Trent had in her jewel box 
a ring set with a catseye exactly like her husband’s. 
Probably he would have discarded his, but it was 
too tight to get off without a file, so I suppose he 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 


319 


just let it stay on. Mrs. Sayre’s wedding ring was 
her own, of course. Fancy her being the wife of 
that Taylor. Yet he has a certain nobility of spirit 
after all.” 

“ He never would have made any trouble for 
them,” Barker put in. “I suppose he just came up 
here to spy on Mrs. Trent.” 

“ Yes,” Stanhope exclaimed. “ That’s why he 
stuck his head in the car that day, and then vanished. 
He saw her, and he didn’t want her to see him.” 

“ Yes, Stone agreed,” and as soon as she learned 
that they were up here, doubtless from the editor of 
the magazine, she came up and engaged her room. 
That was two weeks earlier, Gray told me. They 
didn’t see her, of course, then she came on the day 
appointed, brought those shoes and coat with her, and 
put that performance over like a general! Not one 
woman in a hundred could have pulled it off so suc¬ 
cessfully. If Miss Busby hadn’t been awake, the 
whole story might never have come out. I got a 
telegram to-night from my man in Chicago saying 
that he had located that photograph of a young man 
as Herbert Trent, taken eighteen years ago, and of 
course, the baby picture and baby spoon were also 
his, kept as a souvenir by Elaine—” 

Stone spoke the word gently, remembering the 
book of love sonnets. “ Mrs. Trent began to get wind 
of how things were going and planned to make a 
getaway tonight,” he went on, with a sigh. “ But 


f 


320 


THE FURTHEST FURY 


I had to put the kibosh on that and sent her a little 
note by Emma Lily, telling her she couldn’t put that 
over. Then I called her up on the telephone. I was 
only over in the cottage, and asked her what was in 
the bundle she sent off by parcel post the day after 
the murder. I found out at the post office that she 
did send one. I had Emma Lily watching her while 
I telephoned, and she nearly fell off the chair, then 
collected herself and said it was laundry! A won¬ 
derful woman! It was the disguise and the weapon! ” 

“ Wha} will become of her?” asked Biarker, j 
soberly. 

“ I don’t know,” Stone said. “ I suppose she’ll 
have to stand trial, but she’ll never be convicted. The 
unwritten law will probably get her off.” 

“ Well, the whole thing has served me a good 
turn,” Barker said, his boyish soul ready to throw off 
thoughts of gloom for his own happiness. “ Dad says 
I may marry Gladys. He says, this thing here has 
made his whole outlook different, and if I am sure 
I’m in love, I sha’n’t be denied my choice. And I’m 
sure! ” he added, nodding his head vigorously, “ and 
dad, he’s sure too. He took right to my little girl that 
day she came up here to see him. So we’re engaged.” 

“ All sorts of congratulations and good wishes, 
old man,” cried Stanhope grasping his hand, and * 
Fleming Stone added his sincere and cordial hopes 
for happiness. 


The End 


















